THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

From  the  Library  of 

Henry  Goldman,  Ph.D. 

1886-1972 


A   NONSENSE   ANTHOLOGY 


T  T  E  must  be  a  fool  indeed  who  cannot  at 

•*•  •*•     times  play  the  fool ;  and  be  who  does  not 
enjoy  nonsense  must  be  lacking  in  sense. 

WILLIAM  J.    ROLFE. 


A 

Nonsense 
Anthology 


Collected  by 

Carolyn  Veils 


•oivn 


Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 


PUBLISHED,  OCTOBER,  1902 


TO 

GELETT    BURGESS 
A  NONSENSE   LOVER 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION 

PAGE 
XV 

JABBERWOCKY 

Lewis  Carroll  .... 

3 

MORS  IABROCHII   . 

Anonymous     .... 

4 

THE  NYUM-NYUM 

Anonymous     .... 

6 

UFFIA     

Harriet  R.  White       .      . 

10 

SPIRK  TROLL-DERISIVE  . 

James  Whitcomb  Riley  . 

10 

THE  WHANGO  TREE 

1840      

12 

SING    FOR    THE    GARISH 

EYE    

W.  S.  Gilbert       .      .      . 

13 

THE     CRUISE     OF     THE 

"P.  C."       .... 

Anonymous     .... 

*3 

To  MARIE  

Anonymous     .... 

14. 
~ 

LUNAR  STANZAS    .      .     . 

Henry  Coggswell  Knight 

15 

NONSENSE    

Anonymous,  1617 

16 

SONNET  FOUND  IN  A  DE- 

SERTED MAD  HOUSE    . 

Anonymous     .... 

18 

THE  OCEAN  WANDERER  . 

Anonymous     .... 

18 

SHE'S    ALL    MY    FANCY 

PAINTED  HIM    . 

Lewis  Carroll  .... 

20 

MY     RECOLLECTEST 

THOUGHTS   .... 

Charles  E.  Carryl  .      .      . 

2  I 

FATHER  WILLIAM 

Anonymous     .... 

22 

IN  THE  GLOAMING 

James  C.  Bayles   . 

23 

BALLAD  OF  BEDLAM   . 

Punch          < 

2,4. 

'Tis  SWEET  TO  ROAM     . 

Anonymous     .... 

*r 

25 

HYMN  TO  THE  SUNRISE  . 

Anonymous     .... 

25 

THE  MOON  is  UP  . 

Anonymous     .... 

26 

[vii] 

Contents 


PAGE 

'T  is  MIDNIGHT    . 

Anonymous     .... 

26 

UPRISING  SEE  THE  FITFUL 

LARK  

Anonymous     .... 

*7 

LIKE  TO  THE  THUNDER- 

ING TONE     .... 

Bishop  Corbet 

*7 

MY  DREAM       .... 

Anonymous     .... 

28 

MY  HOME  

Anonymous     .... 

2Q 

IN  IMMEMORIAM    . 

Cuthbert  Bede       .      .      . 

7 
29 

THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM 

IN  A  NUTSHELL  . 

A.  C.  Swinburne  . 

3° 

DARWINITY      .... 

Herman  Merivale  . 

3i 

SONG  OF  THE  SCREW  . 

Anonymous     .... 

33 

MOORLANDS  OF  THE  NOT 

Anonymous     .... 

36 

METAPHYSICS   .... 

Oliver  Herford 

36 

ABSTROSOPHY  .... 

Gelett  Burgess 

37 

ABSTEMIA    

Gelett  Burgess 

18 

PSYCHOLOPHON 

Gelett  Burgess 

J  w 

39 

TIMON  OF  ARCHIMEDES  . 

Charles  Battell  Loomis    . 

39 

ALONE    

Anonymous     .... 

40 

LINES  BY  A  MEDIUM  . 

Anonymous     .... 

4i 

TRANSCENDENTALISM  . 

From  the  Times  of  India 

4i 

INDIFFERENCE  .... 

Anonymous     .... 

42 

QUATRAIN    

Anonymous     .... 

4.1 

COSSIMBAZAR      .... 

Henry  S.  Leigh     . 

T  3 

43 

THE  PERSONIFIED  SENTI- 

MENTAL   

Bret  Harte       .... 

A<1 

A  CLASSIC  ODE      .  -  . 

Charles  Battell  Loomis    . 

'T'T 

45 

WHERE  AVALANCHES 

WAIL       

Anonymous     .... 

4.C 

BLUE  MOONSHINE  . 

Francis  G.  Stokes 

T  J 

46 

NONSENSE    

Thomas  Moore 

47 

c 

viii  J 

~  / 

Contents 


SUPERIOR    NONSENSE 

VERSES Anonymous     ....  47 

WHEN     MOONLIKE     ORE 

THE  HAZURE  SEAS  .     .  W.  M.  Thackeray    .     .  49 
LINES   BY  A   PERSON    OF 

QUALITY  ....  Alexander  Pope  ...  50 
FRANGIPANNI  ....  Anonymous  ....  51 
LINES  BY  A  FOND  LOVER  Anonymous  ....  53 
FORCING  A  WAY  .  .  .  Anonymous  ....  54 
THY  HEART  .  .  .  Anonymous  ....  55 
A  LOVE-SONG  BY  A  LU- 
NATIC ...  .  .  Anonymous  ....  55 
THE  PARTERRE  .  .  .  E.  H.  Palmer.  ...  56 

To  MOLLIDUSTA  .      .      .  Planche 57 

JOHN  JONES       ....  A.  C.  Swinburne       .      .  57 
THE  OWL  AND  THE  PUSSY- 
CAT      Edward  Lear  ....  59 

A  BALLADE  OF  THE  NUR- 

SERIE John  Twig      ....  60 

A  BALLAD  OF  HIGH  EN- 
DEAVOR      Anonymous     ....  62 

THE  LUGUBRIOUS  WHING- 

WHANG James  Whitcomb  Riley  .  63 

OH  !  WEARY  MOTHER     .  Barry  Pain 64 

Swiss  AIR Bret  Harte 64 

THE  BULBUL    ....  Owen  Seaman       ...  65 

BALLAD Anonymous     ....  65 

OH,  MY  GERALDINE  .     .  F.  C.  Burnand     ...  66 
Buz,   QUOTH  THE  BLUE 

FLY Ben  Jonson 66 

A  SONG  ON  KING  WIL- 
LIAM III       ....  Anonymouc     ....  67 

[brj 


Contents 

PAGE 

THERE  WAS  A  MONKEY    .     .  Anonymous,  1626     .  67 

THE  GUINEA  PIG  ....  Anonymous     ...  68 

THREE  CHILDREN  .     .     .      .  London,  1662       .     .  69 

IF Anonymous     ...  70 

A  RIDDLE Anonymous     ...  70 

THREE  JOVIAL  HUNTSMEN    .  Anonymous     ...  70 

THREE  ACRES  OF  LAND  .     .  Anonymous     ...  71 

MASTER  AND  MAN      .     .     .  Anonymous     ...  72 

HYDER  IDDLE Anonymous     ...  73 

KING  ARTHUR       ....  Anonymous     ...  73 

IN  THE  DUMPS       ....  Anonymous     ...  74 

TWEEDLE-DUM    AND     TwEE- 

DLE-DEE Anonymous     ...  74 

MARTIN  TO  HIS  MAN  .     .     .  From  Deuteromelia   .  74 

THE  YoNGHY-BoNGHY-B6   .  Edward  Lear  ...  76 

THE    POBBLE     WHO     HAS     NO 

TOES Edward  Lear   ...  81 

THE  JUMBLIES Edward  Lear   .      .      .  83 

INCIDENTS   IN    THE  LIFE  OF 

MY  UNCLE  ARLY  .  .  .  Edward  Lear  ...  86 
LINES  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  .  Edward  Lear  ...  88 
WAYS  AND  MEANS  .  .  .  Lewis  Carroll  ...  90 
THE  WALRUS  AND  THE  CAR- 
PENTER ...  .  .  Lewis  Carroll  ...  93 
THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  ' 

SNARK Lewis  Carroll  ...  97 

SYLVIE  AND  BRUNO     .      .      .  Lewis  Carroll  .      .      .  101 

GENTLE  ALICE  BROWN    .      .  W.  S.  Gilbert       .      .  102 

THE  STORY  OF  PRINCE  AGIB  W.  S.  Gilbert       .     .  107 
FERDINANDO  AND  ELVIRA,  OR 

THE  GENTLE  PIEMAN    .      .  W.  S.  Gilbert       .     .  no 

[*] 


Contents 

PAGE 

GENERAL  JOHN      .     .     .  W.  S.  Gilbert      .     .     .  112 

LITTLE  BILLEE       .     .     .  W.  M.  Thackeray    .     .  114 
THE    WRECK     OF     THE 

"  JULIE    PLANTE  "       .  William  H.  Drummond  116 
THE  SHIPWRECK    .      .     .  E.  H.  Palmer.     .      .     .  118 
A  SAILOR'S  YARN       .     .  J.  J.  Roche      ....  120 
THE   WALLOPING    WIN- 
DOW-BLIND  ....  Charles  E.  Carryl       .      .  123 
THE  ROLLICKING  MASTO- 
DON       Arthur  Macy  .      .      .      .  125 

THE  SILVER  QUESTION     .  Oliver  Herford      .     .     .  127 
THE  SINGULAR  SANGFROID 

OF  BABY  BUNTING      .  Guy  Wetmore  Carryl      .  129 
FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY  .  Thomas  Hood      .      .     .  131 
THE    ELDERLY  GENTLE- 
MAN       George  Canning   .      .      .  134 

MALUM  OPUS    ....  James  Appleton  Morgan  135 

ESTIVATION  O.  W.  Holmes     .      .     .  136 

A  HOLIDAY  TASK       .      .  Gilbert  Abbott  a  Becket  137 

PUER  EX  JERSEY     .      .      .  Anonymous     .      .      .      .  138 

THE  LITTLE  PEACH    .      .  ^Anonymous     .      .     .      .  138 

MONSIEUR  McGiNTE .      .  Anonymous     .      .      .      .  139 
YE  LAYE  OF  YE  WOOD- 

PECKORE Henry  A.  Beers    .      .      .  139 

COLLUSION     BETWEEN     A 
ALEGAITER    AND   A 

WATER-SNAIK  J.  W.  Morris       .      .     .  143 

ODD  TO  A  KROKIS       .     .  Anonymous    ....  146 

SOME  VERSES  TO  SNAIX    .  Anonymous     .     .     .      .  147 

A  GREAT  MAN      .      .      .  Oliver  Goldsmith  .      .      .  148 

AN  ELEGY Oliver  Goldsmith  .     .  149 


Contents 


PARSON  GRAY  .... 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH 
OF  A  MAD  DOG 

THE  WONDERFUL  OLD 
MAN 

A  CHRONICLE  .... 

ON  THE  OXFORD  CARRIER 

NEPHELIDIA  .      .          .      . 

MARTIN  LUTHER  AT 
POTSDAM  .... 

COMPANIONS     .... 

THE  COCK  AND  THE  BULL 

LOVERS  AND  A  REFLEC- 
TION   

AN  IMITATION  OF  WORDS- 
WORTH   

THE  FAMOUS  BALLAD  OF 
THE  JUBILEE  Cup  . 

A  SONG  OF  IMPOSSIBILI- 
TIES   

TRUST  IN  WOMEN 

HERE  is  THE  TALE 

THE  AULD  WIFE 

NOT  I 

MINNIE  AND  WINNIE 

THE  MAYOR  OF  SCUTTLE- 
TON  

THE  PURPLE  Cow 

THE  INVISIBLE  BRIDGE    . 

THE  LAZY  ROOF  . 

MY  FEET 


Oliver  Goldsmith  . 
Oliver  Goldsmith  . 

Anonymous  . 
Anonymous  . 
John  Milton  . 
A.  C.  Swinburne 

Barry  Pain 

C.  S.  Calverley     . 

C.  S.  Calverley     . 


PAGE 

ISO 

IS1 

153 

155 

*57 
158 

160 
163 
165 


C.  S.  Calverley     ...  170 

Catharine  M.  Fanshawe  .  173 

Arthur  T.  Quiller-Couch  175 

W.  M.  Praed        .      .      .  183 

Anonymous     .      .      .      .  186 

Anthony  C.  Deane    .      .  188 

C.  S.  Calverley      .      .      .  192 

R.  L.  Stevenson    .      .      .  194 

Lord  Tennyson     .      .      .  194 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge  .      .  195 

Gelett  Burgess       .      .      .  196 

Gelett  Burg««s      .      .      .  196 

Gelett  Burgess       .      .      .  197 

Gelett  Burge»«      .      .      .  197 
xii  ] 


Contents 

PAGE 

THE  HEN Oliver  Herford  .  .  .  197 

THE  Cow Oliver  Herford  .  .  .  198 

THE  CHIMPANZEE  .  .  .  Oliver  Herford  .  .  .  199 

THE  HIPPOPOTAMUS  .  .  Oliver  Herford  .  .  .  199 

THE  PLATYPUS  .  .  .  Oliver  Herford  .  .  .  199 

SOME  GEESE  ....  Oliver  Herford  .  .  .  200 

THE  FLAMINGO  .  .  .  Lewis  Gaylord  Clark  .  201 

KINDNESS  TO  ANIMALS  .  J.  Ashby-Sterry  .  .  .  203 

SAGE  COUNSEL  .  .  .  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch  .  204 

OF  BAITING  THE  LION  .  Owen  Seaman  .  .  .  205 

THE  FROG Hilaire  Belloc  .  .  .  207 

THE  YAK Hilaire  Belloc  .  .  .  207 

THE  PYTHON  ....  Hilaire  Belloc  .  .  .  208 

THE  BISON Hilaire  Belloc  .  .  .  209 

THE  PANTHER  .  .  .  Anonymous  ....  209 

THE  MONKEY'S  GLUE  .  Goldwin  Goldsmith  .  .  210 

THERE  WAS  A  FROG  .  .  Christ  Church  MS.  .  .  211 

THEBLOATEDBIGGABOON  H.  Cholmondeley-Penncll  211 

WILD  FLOWERS  .  .  .  Peter  Newell  .  .  .  .  212 

TIMID  HORTENSE  .  .  .  Peter  Newell  .  .  .  .  212 

HER  POLKA  DOTS.  .  .  Peter  Newell  .  .  .  .  212 

HER  DAIRY  ....  Peter  Newell  .  .  .  .  213 

TURVEY  TOP  ....  Anonymous  .  .  .  .  213 
WHAT  THE  PRINCE  OF  I 

DREAMT H.  Cholmondeley-Pennell  215 

THE  DINKEY-BIRD  .  .  Eugene  Field  .  .  .  .  218 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  MOON  James  Whitcomb  Riley  .  220 
THE  STORY  OF  THE  WILD 

HUNTSMAN  ....  Dr.  Heinrich  Hoffman  .  222 
THE  STORY  OF  PYRAMID 

THOTHMES    ....  Anonymous    ....  224 

C  xiii  ] 


Contents 


FACE 

THE    STORY    OF    CRUEL 

PSAMTEK         .... 

Anonymous     .... 

225 

THE  CUMBERBUNCE     . 

Paul  West  

226 

THE  AHKOND  OF  SWAT  . 

Edward  Lear    .... 

230 

A  THRENODY  .... 

George  Thomas  Lanigan 

233 

DIRGE   OF  THE   MOOLLA 

OF  KOTAL     .... 

George  Thomas  Lanigan 

235 

RUSSIAN  AND  TURK    . 

Anonymous     .... 

238 

LINES  TO  Miss  FLORENCE 

HUNTINGDON 

Anonymous     .... 

239 

COBBE'S  PROPHECIES  . 

I  6  I  4. 

2AI 

AN  UNSUSPECTED  FACT  . 

Edward  Cannon    . 

miff  A 

242 

THE  SORROWS  OF   WER- 

THER   

W.  M.  Thackeray     . 

242 

NONSENSE  VERSES  . 

Charles  Lamb  .... 

243 

THE  NOBLE  TUCK-MAN  . 

Jean  Ingelow  .... 

244 

THE  PESSIMIST 

Ben  King   ,      .      ,      ,      . 

24.C 

THE  MODERN  HIAWATHA 

Anonymous     .... 

T  J 

246 

ON  THE  ROAD  .... 

Tudor  jenks    .... 

247 

UNCLE  SIMON  AND  UNCLE 

JIM     ...           . 

Artemus  \Vard 

2A7 

POOR  DEAR  GRANDPAPA 

D'Arcy  W.  Thompson  . 

*"TP/ 

247 

THE  SEA-SERPENT 

Planche       

24.8 

MELANCHOLIA  .... 

Anonymous     .... 

**T*' 

248 

THE  MONKEY'S  WEDDING 

Anonymous     .... 

248 

MR.  FINNEY'S  TURNIP    . 

Anonymous     .... 

250 

THE  SUN 

2  C  I 

THE  AUTUMN  LEAVES     . 

Anonymous     .... 

"5* 

25I 

IN  THE  NIGHT  .... 

Anonymou*     .... 

2  C  I 

POOR  BROTHER     .     .     . 

Anonymous     .... 

"  J  ' 
251 

THE  BOY    

Eugene  Field  .... 

2C2 

[ 

xiv  ] 

j 

Contents 


PAGE 

THE  SEA      

Anonymous 

2  ?2 

THERE  WAS  A  LITTLEGIRL 

H.  W.  Longfellow    . 

j 
•        253 

FlN  DE  SlECLE  .... 

Newton  Mackintosh  . 

•         253 

MARY  JANE       .... 

Anonymous     . 

•      253 

TENDER-HEARTEDNESS     . 

Col.  D.  Streamer  . 

•      253 

IMPETUOUS  SAMUEL    . 

Col.  D.  Streamer  . 

•      254. 

MISFORTUNES   .NEVER 

COME  SINGLY    . 

Col.  D.  Streamer  . 

•      254 

AUNT  ELIZA     .... 

Col.  D.  Streamer.      . 

•      254 

SUSAN     

Anonymous     . 

•      254 

BABY  AND  MARY  . 

Anonymous     . 

•      255 

THE  SUNBEAM  .... 

Anonymous     . 

•      255 

LITTLE  WILLIE 

Anonymous     . 

•      255 

MARY  AMES     .... 

Anonymous     . 

256 

MUDDLED  METAPHORS    . 

Tom  Hood,  Jr.     . 

.      256 

VILLON'S  STRAIGHT  TIP 

TO  ALL  CROSS  COVES  . 

W.  E.  Henley      .      . 

•      257 

OI/E    TO     THE     HUMAN 

HEART     

Laman  Blanchard 

.      258 

L»<v(ERICKS    

Edward  Lear    . 

260 

Anonymous 

262 

Cosmo  Monkhouse    . 

263 

Walter  Parke  .      .      . 

264 

George  du  Maurier    . 

265 

Robert  J.  Burdette    . 

.      266 

Gelett  Burgess      .      . 

.      266 

Bruce  Porter   . 

267 

Newton  Mackintosh  . 

.      267 

Anonymous     . 

267 

Anonymous     . 

.      268 

Anonymous     . 

.      268 

[XV] 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

ON  a  topographical  map  of  Literature  Non- 
sense would  be  represented  by  a  small  and 
sparsely  settled  country,  neglected  by  the 
average  tourist,  but  affording  keen  delight  to  the 
few  enlightened  travellers  who  sojourn  within  its 
borders.  It  is  a  field  which  has  been  neglected 
by  anthologists  and  essayists ;  one  of  its  few  seri- 
ous recognitions  being  in  a  certain  "  Treatise  of 
Figurative  Language,"  which  says  :  "  Nonsense  ; 
shall  we  dignify  that  with  a  place  on  our  list  ? 
Assuredly  will  vote  for  doing  so  every  one  who 
hath  at  all  duly  noticed  what  admirable  and  wise 
uses  it  can  be,  and  often  is,  put  to,  though  never 
before  in  rhetoric  has  it  been  so  highly  honored. 
How  deeply  does  clever  or  quaint  nonsense  abide 
in  the  memory,  and  for  how  many  a  decade  —  from 
earliest  youth  to  age's  most  venerable  years." 

And  yet  Hazlitt's  "  Studies  in  Jocular  Litera- 
ture "  mentions  six  divisions  of  the  Jest,  and 
omits  Nonsense  ! 

Perhaps,  partly  because  of  such  neglect,  the 
work  of  the  best  nonsense  writers  is  less  widely 
known  than  it  might  be. 

[xix] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

But  a  more  probable  reason  is  that  the  majority 
of  the  reading  world  does  not  appreciate  or  enjdy 
real  nonsense,  and  this,  again,  is  consequent  upon 
their  inability  to  discriminate  between  nonsense  of 
integral  merit  and  simple  chaff. 

A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 

Of  him  that  hears  it.      Never  in  the  tongue 

Of  him  that  makes  it, 

and  a  sense  of  nonsense  is  as  distinct  a  part  of 
our  mentality  as  a  sense  of  humor,  being  by  no 
means  identical  therewith. 

It  is  a  fad  at  present  for  a  man  to  relate  a  non- 
sensical story,  and  then,  if  his  hearer  does  not 
laugh,  say  gravely  :  "  You  have  no  sense  of  humor. 
That  is  a  test  story,  and  only  a  true  humorist 
laughs  at  it."  Now,  the  hearer  may  have  an  ex- 
quisite sense  of  humor,  but  he  may  be  lacking  in 
a  sense  of  nonsense,  and  so  the  story  gives  him 
no  pleasure.  De  Quincey  said,  "  None  but  a  man 
of  extraordinary  talent  can  write  first-rate  non- 
sense." Only  a  short  study  of  the  subject  is  required 
to  convince  us  that  De  Quincey  was  right ;  and 
he  might  have  added,  none  but  a  man  of  extraor- 
dinary taste  can  appreciate  first-rate  nonsense.  As 
an  instance  of  this,  we  may  remember  that  Edward 
Lear,  "  the  parent  of  modern  nonsense-writers," 
was  a  talented  author  and  artist,  and  a  prime  favor- 
ite of  such  men  as  Tennyson  and  the  Earls  of 
[xx] 


Introduction 


Derby ;  and  John  Ruskin  placed  Lear's  name  at 
the  head  of  his  list  of  the  best  hundred  authors. 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  said  William  Pitt,  "  of  a  man's 
being  able  to  talk  sense  ;  every  one  can  talk  sense. 
Can  he  talk  nonsense  ?  " 

The  sense  of  nonsense  enables  us  not  only  to 
discern  pure  nonsense,  but  to  consider  intelligently 
nonsense  of  various  degrees  of  purity.  Absence 
of  sense  is  not  necessarily  nonsense,  any  more  than 
absence  of  justice  is  injustice. 

Etymologically  speaking,  nonsense  may  be  either 
words  without  meaning,  or  words  conveying  absurd 
or  ridiculous  ideas.  It  is  the  second  definition 
which  expresses  the  great  mass  of  nonsense  litera- 
ture, but  there  is  a  small  proportion  of  written 
nonsense  which  comes  under  the  head  of  language 
without  meaning. 

Again,  there  are  verses  composed  entirely  of 
meaningless  words,  which  are  not  nonsense  litera- 
ture, because  they  are  written  with  some  other 
intent. 

The  nursery  rhyme,  of  which  there  are  almost 
as  many  versions  as  there  are  nurseries, 

Eena,  meena,  mona,  mi, 
Bassalona,  bona,  stri, 
Hare,  ware,  frown,  whack, 
Halico  balico,  we,  wi,  wo,  wack, 

is  not  strictly  a  nonsense  verse,  because  it  was  in- 
[xxi] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

vented    and    used    for    "  counting    out,"    and    the 
arbitrary  words  simply  take  the  place  of  the  num 
bers  i,  2,  3,  etc. 

Also,  the  nonsense  verses  with  which  students 
of  Latin  composition  are  sometimes  taught  to 
begin  their  efforts,  where  words  are  used  with  no 
relative  meaning,  simply  to  familiarize  the  pupil 
with  the  mechanical  values  of  quantity  and  metre, 
are  not  nonsense.  It  is  only  nonsense  for  non- 
sense' sake  that  is  now  under  our  consideration. 

Doubtless  the  best  and  best-known  example  of 
versified  words  without  meaning  is  "  Jabberwocky." 
Although  (notwithstanding  Lewis  Carroll's  expla- 
nations) the  coined  words  are  absolutely  without 
meaning,  the  rhythm  is  perfect  and  the  poetic 
quality  decidedly  apparent,  and  the  poem  appeals 
to  the  nonsense  lover  as  a  work  of  pure  genius. 
Bayard  Taylor  is  said  to  have  recited  "Jabber- 
wocky "  aloud  for  his  own  delectation  until  he  was 
forced  to  stop  by  uncontrollable  laughter.  To  us 
who  know  our  Alice  it  would  seem  unnecessary  to 
quote  this  poem,  but  it  is  a  fact  that  among  the 
general  reading  community  the  appreciators  of 
Lewis  Carroll  are  surprisingly  few.  An  editor  of 
a  leading  literary  review,  when  asked  recently  if 
he  had  read  "  Alice  in  Wonderland,"  replied, 
"  No,  but  I  mean  to.  It  is  by  the  author  of  c  As 
in  a  J  ooking-Glass,'  is  it  not?" 
[  xxii  ] 


Introduction 


But  of  far  greater  interest  and  merit  than  non- 
sense of  words,  is  nonsense  of  ideas.  Here,  again, 
we  distinguish  between  nonsense  and  no  sense. 
Ideas  conveying  no  sense  are  often  intensely  funny, 
and  this  type  is  seen  in  some  of  the  best  of  our 
nonsense  literature. 

A  perfect  specimen  is  the  bit  of  evidence  read 
by  the  White  Rabbit  at  the  Trial  of  the  Knave  of 
Hearts.1  One  charm  of  these  verses  is  the  serious 
air  of  legal  directness  which  pervades  their  am- 
biguity, and  another  is  the  precision  with  which  the 
metrical  accent  coincides  exactly  with  the  natural 
emphasis.  They  are  marked,  too,  by  the  liquid 
euphony  that  always  distinguishes  Lewis  Carroll's 
poetry. 

A  different  type  is  found  in  verses  that  refer  to 
objects  in  terms  the  opposite  of  true,  thereby  sug- 
gesting ludicrous  incongruity,  and  there  is  also  the 
nonsense  verse  that  uses  word  effects  which  have 
been  confiscated  by  the  poets  and  tacitly  given 
over  to  them. 

A  refrain  of  nonsense  words  is  a  favorite  diver- 
sion of  many  otherwise  serious  poets. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

is   one  of  Shakespeare's    many  musical    nonsense 
refrains. 

1  "  She  '*  all  my  Fancy  painted  him,"  page  20. 
[  xxiii  J 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Burns  gives  us  : 

Ken  ye  aught  o'  Captain  Grose  ? 

Igo  and  ago, 
If  he  's  'mang  his  freens  or  foes  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 
Is  he  slain  by  Highlan'  bodies  ? 

Igo  and  ago  5 
And  eaten  like  a  weather  haggis  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Another  very  old  refrain  runs  thus  : 


,  corum,  sunt  di-vorum, 
Harum,  scarum,  divo; 

Tag-rag,  merry-derry,  periwig  and  hat-band, 
Hie,  hoc,  horum,  genitivo. 

An  old  ballad  written  before  the  Reformation 
has  for  a  refrain  : 

Sing  go  trix, 
Trim  go  trix, 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

While  a  celebrated  political  ballad  is  known  by  its 
nonsense  chorus, 

Lilliburlero  bullin  a-la. 

Mother  Goose  rhymes  abound  in  these  non- 
sense refrains,  and  they  are  often  fine  examples  of 
onomatopoeia. 

By  far  the  most  meritorious  and  most  interesting 
kind  of  nonsense  is  that  which  embodies  an  absurd 


Introduction 


or  ridiculous  idea,  and  treats  it  with  elaborate  seri- 
ousness. The  greatest  masters  of  this  art  are  un- 
doubtedly Edward  Lear  and  Lewis  Carroll.  These 
Englishmen  were  men  of  genius,  deep  thinkers, 
and  hard  workers. 

Lear  was  an  artist  draughtsman,  his  subjects 
being  mainly  ornithological  and  zoological.  Lewis 
Carroll  (Charles  L.  Dodgson)  was  an  expert  in 
mathematics  and  a  lecturer  on  that  science  in 
Christ  Church,  Oxford. 

Both  these  men  numbered  among  their  friends 
many  of  the  greatest  Englishmen  of  the  day. 
Tennyson  was  a  warm  friend  and  admirer  of  each, 
as  was  also  John  Ruskin. 

Lear's  first  nonsense  verses,  published  in  1846, 
are  written  in  the  form  of  the  well-known  stanza 
beginning  : 

There  was  an  old  man  of  Tobago. 

This  type  of  stanza,  known  as  the  "  Limerick," 
is  said  by  a  gentleman  who  speaks  with  authority  to 
have  flourished  in  the  reign  of  William  IV.  This 
is  one  of  several  he  remembers  as  current  at  his 
public  school  in  1834: 

There  was  a  young  man  at  St.  Kitts 
Who  was  very  much  troubled  with  fits  ; 

The  eclipse  of  the  moon 

Threw  him  into  a  swoon, 
When  he  tumbled  and  broke  into  bits. 
£  xxv  J 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Lear  distinctly  asserts  that  this  form  of  verse  was 
not  invented  by  him,  but  was  suggested  by  a  friend 
as  a  useful  model  for  amusing  rhymes.  It  proved 
so  in  his  case,  for  he  published  no  less  than  two 
hundred  and  twelve  of  these  "  Limericks." 

In  regard  to  his  verses,  Lear  asserted  that "  non- 
sense, pure  and  absolute,"  was  his  aim  through- 
out •,  and  remarked,  further,  that  to  have  been  the 
means  of  administering  innocent  mirth  to  thou- 
sands was  surely  a  just  excuse  for  satisfaction. 
He  pursued  his  aim  with  scrupulous  consistency, 
and  his  absurd  conceits  are  fantastic  and  ridiculous, 
but  never  cheaply  or  vulgarly  funny. 

Twenty-five  years  after  his  first  book  came  out, 
Lear  published  other  books  of  nonsense  verse  and 
prose,  with  pictures  which  are  irresistibly  mirth- 
provoking.  Lear's  nonsense  songs,  while  retain- 
ing all  the  ludicrous  merriment  of  his  Limericks, 
have  an  added  quality  of  poetic  harmony.  They 
are  distinctly  singable,  and  many  of  them  have 
been  set  to  music  by  talented  composers.  Perhaps 
the  best-known  songs  are  "The  Owl  and  the 
Pussy-Cat  "  and  "  The  Daddy-Long-Legs  and  the 
Fly." 

Lear  himself  composed  airs  for  u  The  Pelican 
Chorus  "  and  "  The  Yonghy-Bonghy  Bo,"  which 
were  arranged  for  the  piano  by  Professor  Pome,  of 
San  Remo,  Italy. 

[  xxvi  ] 


introduction 


Although  like  Lear's  in  some  respects,  Lewis 
Carroll's  nonsense  is  perhaps  of  a  more  refined 
type.  There  is  less  of  the  grotesque  and  more 
poetic  imagery.  But  though  Carroll  was  more  of 
a  poet  than  Lear,  both  had  the  true  sense  of  non- 
sense. Both  assumed  the  most  absurd  conditions, 
and  proceeded  to  detail  their  consequences  with 
a  simple  seriousness  that  convulses  appreciative 
readers,  and  we  find  ourselves  uncertain  whether 
it  is  the  manner  or  the  matter  that  is  more 
amusing. 

Lewis  Carroll  was  a  man  of  intellect  and  edu- 
cation ;  his  funniest  sayings  are  often  based 
on  profound  knowledge  or  deep  thought.  Like 
Lear,  he  never  spoiled  his  quaint  fancies  by 
over-exaggerating  their  quaintness  or  their  fanci- 
fulness,  and  his  ridiculous  plots  are  as  carefully 
conceived,  constructed,  and  elaborated  as  though 
they  embodied  the  soundest  facts.  No  funny 
detail  is  ever  allowed  to  become  too  funny ;  and  it 
is  in  this  judicious  economy  of  extravagance  that 
his  genius  is  shown.  As  he  remarks  in  one  of  his 
own  poems : 

Then,  fourthly,  there  are  epithets 

That  suit  with  any  word  — 
As  well  as  Harvey's  Reading  Sauce 

With  fish,  or  flesh,  or  bird. 

xxvii 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Such  epithets,  like  pepper, 
Give  zest  to  what  you  write ; 

And,  if  you  strew  them  sparely, 
They  whet  the  appetite  ; 

But  if  you  lay  them  on  too  thick, 
You  spoil  the  matter  quite  ! 


Both  Lear  and  Carroll  suffered  from  the  undis- 
cerning  critics  who  persisted  in  seeing  in  their 
nonsense  a  hidden  meaning,  a  cynical,  political,  or 
other  intent,  veiled  under  the  apparent  foolery. 
Lear  takes  occasion  to  deny  this  in  the  preface 
to  one  of  his  books,  and  asserts  not  only  that  his 
rhymes  and  pictures  have  no  symbolical  meaning, 
but  that  he  "took  more  care  than  might  be  sup- 
posed to  make  the  subjects  incapable  of  such 
misinterpretation." 

Likewise,  "  Jabberwocky  "  was  declared  by  one 
critic  to  be  a  translation  from  the  German,  and 
by  others  its  originality  was  doubted.  The  truth 
is,  that  it  was  written  by  Lewis  Carroll  at  an  even- 
ing party;  it  was  quite  impromptu,  and  no  ulterior 
meaning  was  intended.  "  The  Hunting  of  the 
Snark  "  was  also  regarded  by  some  as  an  allegory, 
or,  perhaps,  a  burlesque  on  a  celebrated  case,  in 
which  the  Snark  was  used  as  a  personification  of 
popularity,  but  Lewis  Carroll  protested  that  the 
poem  had  no  meaning  at  all. 

A  favorite  trick  of  the  Nonsensists  is  the  coining 
[  xxviii  J 


Introduction 


of  words  to  suit  their  needs,  and  Lear  and  Carroll 
are  especially  happy  in  their  inventions  of  this  kind. 

Lear  gives  us  such  gems  as  scroobious,  meloobi- 
ous,  ombliferous,  borascible,  slobaciously,  himmel- 
tanious,  flumpetty,  and  mumbian  ;  while  the  best 
of  Lewis  Carroll's  coined  words  are  those  found  in 
';  Jabberwocky." 

Another  of  the  great  Nonsensists  is  W.  S. 
Gilbert.  Unlike  Lear  or  Carroll,  his  work  is  not 
characterized  by  absurd  words  or  phrases ;  he  pre- 
fers a  still  wider  scope,  and  invents  a  ridiculous 
plot.  The  "  Bab  Ballads,"  as  well  as  Mr.  Gilbert's 
comic  opera  librettos,  hinge  upon  schemes  of  ludi- 
crous impossibility,  which  are  treated  as  the  most 
natural  proceedings  in  the  world.  The  best  known 
of  the  "  Bab  Ballads  "  is  no  doubt  "  The  Yam  of 
the  c  Nancy  Bell,'  "  which  was  long  since  set  to 
music  and  is  still  a  popular  song.  In  addition 
to  his  talent  for  nonsense,  Mr.  Gilbert  possesses  a 
wonderful  rhyming  facility,  and  juggles  cleverly 
with  difficult  and  unusual  metres. 

In  regard  to  his  "  Bab  Ballads,"  Mr.  Gilbert 
gravely  says  that  "  they  are  not,  as  a  rule,  founded 
on  fact,"  and,  remembering  their  gory  and  often 
cannibalistic  tendencies,  we  are  grateful  for  this 
assurance.  An  instance  of  Gilbert's  appreciation 
of  other  people's  nonsense  is  his  parody  of  Lear's 
verse  • 

f  xxix  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

There  was  an  old  man  in  a  tree 
Who  was  horribly  bored  by  a  bee  ; 

When  they  said,  "  Does  it  buzz  ?  " 

He  replied,  '«  Yes,  it  does  ! 
It 's  a  regular  brute  of  a  bee  !  " 

The  parody  attributed  to  Gilbert  is  called  "  A 
Nonsense  Rhyme  in  Blank  Verse  "  : 

There  was  an  old  man  of  St.  Bees, 
Who  was  stung  in  the  arm  by  a  wasp  ; 

When  they  asked,  "Does  it  hurt?" 

He  replied,  "  No,  it  does  n't, 
But  I  thought  all  the  while  't  was  a  Hornet  !  " 

Thackeray  wrote  spirited  nonsense,  but  much  of 
it  had  an  under-meaning,  political  or  otherwise, 
which  bars  it  from  the  field  of  sheer  nonsense. 

The  sense  of  nonsense  is  no  respecter  of  per- 
sons ;  even  staid  old  Dr.  Johnson  possessed  it, 
though  his  nonsense  verses  are  marked  by  credible 
fact  and  irrefutable  logic.  Witness  these  two 
examples : 

As  with  my  hat  upon  my  head 

I  walked  along  the  Strand, 
I  there  did  meet  another  man 

With  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

The  tender  infant,  meek  and  mild, 

Fell  down  upon  the  stone  ; 
The  nurse  took  up  the  squealing  child, 

But  still  the  child  squealed  on. 
[xxx  J 


Introduction 


The  Doctor  is  also  responsible  for 

If  a  man  who  turnips  cries, 
Cry  not  when  his  father  dies, 
'Tis  a  proof  that  he  would  rather 
Have  a  turnip  than  a  father. 

And  indeed,  among  our  best  writers  there  are 
few  who  have  not  dropped  into  nonsense  or  semi- 
nonsense  at  one  time  or  another. 

A  familiar  bit  of  nonsense  prose  is  by  S.  Foote, 
and  it  is  said  that  Charles  Macklin  used  to  recite  it 
with  great  gusto  : 

"  She  went  into  the  garden  to  cut  a  cabbage-leaf  to  make 
an  apple-pie,  and  at  the  same  time  a  great  she-bear  coming 
up  the  street,  pops  its  head  into  the  shop.  '  What,  no 
soap  ?  *  so  he  died.  She  imprudently  married  the  barber, 
and  there  were  present  the  Pickaninnies,  the  Joblilies,  the 
Gayrulies,  and  the  Grand  Panjandrum  himself  with  the  little 
round  button  on  top,  and  they  all  fell  to  playing  catch-as- 
catch-can  till  the  gunpowder  ran  out  at  the  heels  of  their 
boots." 

An  old  nonsense  verse  attributed  to  an  Oxford 
student,  is  the  well  known 

A  centipede  was  happy  quite, 

Until  a  frog  in  fun 

Said,  "  Pray,  which  leg  comes  after  which  ?** 
This  raised  her  mind  to  such  a  pitch, 
She  lay  distracted  in  the  ditch 

Considering  how  to  run. 

So  far  as  we  know,  Kipling  has  never  printed 
[  xxxi  J 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

anything  which  can  be  called  nonsense  verse,  but 
it  is  doubtless  only  a  question  of  time  when  that 
branch  shall  be  added  to  his  versatility.  His  u  Just 
So "  stories  are  capital  nonsense  prose,  and  the 
following  rhyme  proves  him  guilty  of  at  least  one 
Limerick  : 

There  was  a  small  boy  of  Quebec, 
Who  was  buried  in  snow  to  his  neck  ; 

When  they  said,  "  Are  you  friz  ?  " 

He  replied,  "  Yes,  I  is  — 
But  we  don't  call  this  cold  in  Quebec." 

Among  living  authors,  one  who  has  written  a 
great  amount  of  good  nonsense  is  Mr.  Gelett  Bur- 
gess, late  editor  of  The  Lark. 

According  to  Mr.  Burgess'  own  statement,  the 
test  of  nonsense  is  its  quotability,  and  his  work 
stands  this  test  admirably,  for  what  absurd  rhyme 
ever  attained  such  popularity  as  his  "  Purple 
Cow"?  This  was  first  printed  in  The  Lark, 
a  paper  published  in  San  Francisco  for  two  years, 
the  only  periodical  of  any  merit  that  has  ever  made 
intelligent  nonsense  its  special  feature. 

Another  of  the  most  talented  nonsense  writers  of 
to-day  is  Mr.  Oliver  Herford.  It  is  a  pity,  however, 
to  reproduce  his  verse  without  his  illustrations,  for  as 
nonsense  these  are  as  admirable  as  the  text.  But 
the  greater  part  of  Mr.  Herford's  work  belongs  to 
the  realm  of  pure  fancy,  and  though  of  a  whimsical 
[  xxxii  J 


Introduction 


delicacy  often  equal  to  Lewis  Carroll's,  it  is  rarely 
sheer  nonsense. 

As  a  proof  that  good  nonsense  is  by  no  means 
an  easy  achievement,  attention  is  called  to  a  recent 
competition  inaugurated  by  the  London  Academy. 

Nonsense  rhymes  similar  to  those  quoted  from 
The  Lark  were  asked  for,  and  though  many  were 
received,  it  is  stated  that  no  brilliant  results  were 
among  them. 

The  prize  was  awarded  to  this  weak  and 
uninteresting  specimen  : 

"  If  half  the  road  was  made  of  jam, 

The  other  half  of  bread, 
How  very  nice  my  walks  would  be," 
The  greedy  infant  said. 

These  two  were  also  offered  by  competitors: 

I  love  to  stand  upon  my  head 

And  think  of  things  sublime 
Until  my  mother  interrupts 

And  says  it's  dinner-time. 

A  lobster  wooed  a  lady  crab, 

And  kissed  her  lovely  face. 
"  Upon  my  sole,"  the  crabbess  cried, 
"  I  wish  you  'd  mind  your  plaice  ! " 

Let  us,  then,  give  Nonsense  its  place  among  the 
divisions  of  Humor,  and  though  we  cannot  reduce 
it  to  an  exact  science,  let  us  acknowledge  it  as  a 
fine  art. 

[  c  ]  [  xxxiii  j 


A    NONSENSE   ANTHOLOGY 


4  Nonsense  Anthology 


JABBERWOCKY 

*r  I  ^>  WAS  brillig,  and  the  slithy  toves 

Did  gyre  and  gimble  in  the  wabe ; 
All  mimsy  were  the  borogoves, 
And  the  mome  raths  outgrabe. 

"  Beware  the  Jabberwock,  my  son  ! 

The  jaws  that  bite,  the  claws  that  catch ! 
Beware  the  Jubjub  bird,  and  shun 

The  frumious  Bandersnatch  !  " 

He  took  his  vorpal  sword  in  hand  : 

Long  time  the  manxome  foe  he  sought. 

So  rested  he  by  the  Tumtum  tree, 
And  stood  awhile  in  thought. 

And  as  in  uffish  thought  he  stood, 
The  Jabberwock  with  eyes  of  flame, 

Came  whiffling  through  the  tulgey  wood, 
And  burbled  as  it  came  ! 

One,  two  !    One,  two  !  And  through,  and  through 
The  vorpal  blade  went  snicker-snack  ! 

He  left  it  dead,  and  with  its  head 
He  went  galumphing  back. 
[3] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  And  hast  thou  slain  the  Jabberwock  ? 

Come  to  my  arms,  my  beamish  boy  ! 
Oh,  frabjous  day  !      Callooh  !  callay  !  " 

He  chortled  in  his  joy. 

'T  was  brillig,  and  the  slithy  toves 
Did  gyre  and  gimble  in  the  wabe ; 

All  mimsy  were  the  borogoves 
And  the  mome  raths  outgrabe. 

Lewis  Carroll. 


MORS    IABROCHII 

CCESPER1     erat:      tune     lubriciles2    ultravia 
circum 
Urgebant  gyros  gimbiculosque  tophi ; 
Moestenui  visae  borogovides  ire  meatu  ; 
Et  profugi  gemitus  exgrabuere  rathae. 

O  fuge  labrochium,  sanguis  meus  !  3  Ille  recurvis 
Unguibus,  estque  avidis  dentibus  ille  minax. 

Ububae     fuge     cautus     avis    vim,    gnate !     Neque 

unquam 
Faederpax  contra  te  frumiosus  eat ! 

1  Caesper  from  Cana  and  'vesper. 

2  lubriciles  from  lubricui  and  graciles.    See  the  Commen- 
tary in  Humpty  Dumpty's   square,  which  will  also  explain 
ultravia,  and  —  if  it  requires  explanation  —  mtzstenut. 

8   Sanguis  meus:  cf.  Verg.  JEn.  6.  836, 
"  Projice  tela  manu,  sanguis  meus  !" 

[4] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Vorpali  gladio  juvenis  succingitur  :   hostis 

Manxumus  ad  medium  quaeritur  usque  diem  : 

Jamque  via  fesso,  sed  plurima  mente  prementi, 
Tumtumiae  frondis  suaserat  umbra  moram. 

Consilia  interdum  stetit  egnia1   mene  revolvens; 

At  gravis  in  densa  fronde  susufFrus  2  erat, 
Spiculaque  3  ex  oculis  jacientis  flammea,  tulseam 

Per  silvam  venit  burbur  4  labrochii ! 

Vorpali,  semel  atque  iterum  collectus  in  ictum, 
Persnicuit  gladis  persnacuitque  puer : 

Deinde  galumphatus,  spernens  informe  Cadaver, 
Horrendum  monstri  rettulit  ipse  caput. 

Victor  labrochii,  spoliis  insignis  opimis, 
Rursus  in  amplexus,  o  radiose,  meos  ! 

O  frabiose  dies  !   CALLO  clamateque  CALL  A  ! 
Vix  potuit  laetus  chorticulare  pater. 

Coesper  erat :  tune  lubriciles  ultravia  circum 
Urgebant  gyros  gimbiculosque  tophi ; 

Moestenui  visae  borogovides  ire  meatu  ; 
Et  profugi  gemitus  exgrabuere  rathae. 

Anonymous. 


1  egnia:  "  muffish"  —  segnis  ;  .  .  .  ««  uffish"=r  egnis.     This 
is  a  conjectural  analogy,  but  I  ran  suggest  no  better  solution. 

2  susuffrus  :  "whiffling"  :  :  susurrus  :  "whistling." 
8  spicula  :    see  the  picture. 

4  burbur :     apparently    a    labial     variation     of    murmur •, 
stronger  but  more  dissonant. 

[5] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THE   NYUM-NYUM 

r\  "VHE  Nyum-Nyum  chortled  by  the  sea, 

And  sipped  the  wavelets  green  : 
He  wondered  how  the  sky  could  be 
So  very  nice  and  clean  ; 

He  wondered  if  the  chambermaid 

Had  swept  the  dust  away, 
And  if  the  scrumptious  Jabberwock 

Had  mopped  it  up  that  day. 

And  then  in  sadness  to  his  love 

The  Nyum-Nyum  weeping  said, 
I  know  no  reason  why  the  sea 

Should  not  be  white  or  red. 

I  know  no  reason  why  the  sea 

Should  not  be  red,  I  say  ; 
And  why  the  slithy  Bandersnatch 

Has  not  been  round  to-day. 

He  swore  he  'd  call  at  two  o'clock, 

And  now  it 's  half-past  four. 
"Stay,"  said  the  Nyum-Nyum's  love,  "I  think 

I  hear  him  at  the  door." 

In  twenty  minutes  in  there  came 

A  creature  black  as  ink, 
Which  put  its  feet  upon  a  chair 

And  called  for  beer  to  drink. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

They  gave  him  porter  in  a  tub, 
But,  "  Give  me  more  !  "  he  cried  ; 

And  then  he  drew  a  heavy  sigh, 
And  laid  him  down,  and  died. 


He  died,  and  in  the  Nyum-Nyum's  cave 

A  cry  of  mourning  rose ; 
The  Nyum-Nyum  sobbed  a  gentle  sob, 

And  slily  blew  his  nose. 

The  Nyum-Nyum's  love,  we  need  not  state, 

Was  overwhelmed  and  sad  ; 
She  said,  "  Oh,  take  the  corpse  away, 

Or  you  will  drive  me  mad  !  " 


The  Nyum-Nyum  in  his  supple  arms 
Took  up  the  gruesome  weight, 

And,  with  a  cry  of  bitter  fear, 
He  threw  it  at  his  mate. 


And  then  he  wept,  and  tore  his  hair, 

And  threw  it  in  the  sea, 
And  loudly  sobbed  with  streaming  eyes 

That  such  a  thing  could  be. 

The  ox,  that  mumbled  in  his  stall, 
Perspired  and  gently  sighed, 

And  then,  in  sympathy,  it  fell 
Upon  its  back  and  died. 
[7] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

The  hen  that  sat  upon  her  eggs, 
With  high  ambition  fired, 

Arose  in  simple  majesty, 
And,  with  a  cluck,  expired. 


The  jubejube  bird,  that  carolled  there, 

Sat  down  upon  a  post, 
And  with  a  reverential  caw, 

Gave  up  its  little  ghost. 

And  ere  its  kind  and  loving  life 

Eternally  had  ceased, 
The  donkey,  in  the  ancient  barn, 

In  agony  deceased. 

The  raven,  perched  upon  the  elm, 
Gave  forth  a  scraping  note, 

And  ere  the  sound  had  died  away, 
Had  cut  its  tuneful  throat. 


The  Nyum-Nyum's  love  was  sorrowful ; 

And,  after  she  had  cried, 
She,  with  a  brand-new  carving-knife, 

Committed  suicide. 


" Alas  !  "   the  Nyum-Nyum  said,  "alas  ! 

With  thee  I  will  not  part," 
And  straightway  seized  a  rolling-pin 

And  drove  it  through  his  heart. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

The  mourners  came  and  gathered  up 

The  bits  that  lay  about  ; 
But  why  the  massacre  had  been, 

They  could  not  quite  make  out. 

One  said  there  was  a  mystery 
Connected  with  the  deaths; 

But  others  thought  the  silent  ones 
Perhaps  had  lost  their  breaths. 

The  doctor  soon  arrived,  and  viewed 

The  corpses  as  they  lay  ; 
He  could  not  give  them  life  again, 

So  he  was  heard  to  say. 

But,  oh !  it  was  a  horrid  sight ; 

It  made  the  blood  run  cold, 
To  see  the  bodies  carried  off 

And  covered  up  with  mould. 

The  Toves  across  the  briny  sea 
Wept  buckets-full  of  tears  ; 

They  were  relations  of  the  dead, 
And  had  been  friends  for  years. 

The  Jabberwock  upon  the  hill 
Gave  forth  a  gloomy  wail, 

When  in  his  airy  seat  he  sat, 
And  told  the  awful  tale. 
[9] 


Nonsense   Anthology 


And  who  can  wonder  that  it  made 

That  loving  creature  cry  ? 
For  he  had  done  the  dreadful  work 

And  caused  the  things  to  die. 

That  Jabberwock  was  passing  bad  — 
That  Jabberwock  was  wrong, 

And  with  this  verdict  I  conclude 
One  portion  of  my  song. 

dnonymou*  , 

UFFIA 

WHEN  sporgles  spanned  the  floreate  mead 
And  cogwogs  gleet  upon  the  lea, 
Uffia  gopped  to  meet  her  love 
Who  smeeged  upon  the  equat  sea. 

Dately  she  walked  aglost  the  sand  ; 

The  boreal  wind  sect  in  her  face  ; 
The  moggling  waves  yalped  at  her  feet  ; 

Pangwangling  was  her  pace. 

Harriet  R.  White. 

SPIKK    TROLL-DERISIVE* 

^r^HE   Crankadox  leaned  o'er  the  edge  of  the 

moon, 

And  wistfully  gazed  on  the  sea 
Where  the  Gryxabodill  madly  whistled  a  tune 
To  the  air  of  "  Ti-fol-de-ding-dee." 

o 

*  By  permission  of  the  author  ;  from  '  '  Spirk  and  Wunk  Rhymes,  '  ' 
copyright,  1891,  1898. 

[10] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

The  quavering  shriek  of  the  Fliupthecreek 

Was  fitfully  wafted  afar 

To  the  Queen  of  the  Wunks  as  she  powdered  her 
cheek 

With  the  pulverized  rays  of  a  star. 

The  Gool    closed    his    ear    on    the  voice  of   the 
Grig, 

And  his  heart  it  grew  heavy  as  lead 
As  he  marked  the  Baldekin  adjusting  his  wig 

On  the  opposite  side  of  his  head  ; 
And  the  air  it  grew  chill  as  the  Gryxabodill 

Raised  his  dank,  dripping  fins  to  the  skies 
To  plead  with  the  Plunk  for  the  use  of  her  bill 

To  pick  the  tears  out  of  his  eyes. 


The  ghost  of  the  Zhack  flitted  by  in  a  trance ; 

And  the  Squidjum  hid  under  a  tub 
As    he    heard    the    loud    hooves    of   the  Hooken 
advance 

With  a  rub-a-dub-dub-a-dub  dub  ! 
And  the  Crankadox  cried  as  he  laid  down  and  died, 

"  My  fate  there  is  none  to  bewail  !  " 
While  the  Queen  of  the  Wunks  drifted  over  the 
tide 

With  a  long  piece  of  crape  to  her  tail. 

James  Wbitcomb  Riley 


T 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THE   WHANGO   TREE 

HE  woggly  bird  sat  on  the  whango  tree, 

Nooping  the  rinkum  corn, 
And  graper  and  graper,  alas  !  grew  he, 
And  cursed  the  day  he  was  born. 
His  crute  was  clum  and  his  voice  was  rum, 

As  curiously  thus  sang  he, 
"  Oh,    would     I  'd     been    rammed    and    eternally 

clammed 
Ere  I  perched  on  this  whango  tree." 

Now  the  whango  tree  had  a  bubbly  thorn, 

As  sharp  as  a  nootie's  bill, 
And  it  stuck  in  the  woggly  bird's  umptum  lorn 

And  weepadge,  the  smart  did  thrill. 
He  fumbled  and  cursed,  but  that  was  n't  the  worst, 

For  he  could  n't  at  all  get  free, 
And    he    cried,  "  I    am    gammed,    and    injustibly 
nammed 

On  the  luggardly  whango  tree." 

And  there  he  sits  still,  with  no  worm  in  his  bill, 

Nor  no  guggledom  in  his  nest ; 
He  is  hungry  and  bare,  and  gobliddered  with  care, 

And  his  grabbles  give  him  no  rest ; 
He  is  weary  and  sore  and  his  tugmut  is  soar, 

And  nothing  to  nob  has  he, 

A^s   he  chirps,   "  I    am    blammed    and    corruptibly 
jammed, 

In  this  cuggerdom  whango  tree."  1840 


A   Nonsense   Anthology  » 


SING   FOR   THE  GARISH   EYE 

SING  for  the  garish  eye, 
When  moonless  brandlings  cling  ! 
Let  the  froddering  crooner  cry, 
And  the  braddled  sapster  sing. 
For  never  and  never  again, 

Will  the  tottering  beechlings  play, 
For  bratticed  wrackers  are  singing  aloud, 
And  the  throngers  croon  in  May  ! 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 


THE   CRUISE   OF   THE   "P.   C." 

ACROSS  the  swiffling  waves  they  went, 
The  gumly  bark  yoked  to  and  fro.- 
The  jupple  crew  on  pleasure  bent, 
Galored,  "  This  is  a  go  !  " 

Beside  the  poo's'l  stood  the  Gom, 
He  chirked  and  murgled  in  his  glee; 

While  near  him,  in  a  grue  jipon, 
The  Bard  was  quite  at  sea. 

"  Gollop  !   Golloy  !  Thou  scrumjous  Bard  ! 

Take  pen  (thy  stylo)  and  endite 
A  pome,  my  brain  needs  kurgling  hard, 
And  I  will  feast  tonight." 
C'3] 


.    A   Nonsense   Anthology 

That  wansome  Bard  he  took  his  pen, 

A  flirgly  look  around  he  guv ; 
He  squoffled  once,  he  squirled,  and  then 

He  wrote  what 's  writ  above. 

Anonymous. 


TO   MARIE 

WHEN  the  breeze  from  the  bluebottle's  blus- 
tering blim 
Twirls  the  toads  in  a  tooroomaloo, 
And    the    whiskery    whine    of   the    wheedlesome 

whim 

Drowns  the  roll  of  the  rattatattoo, 
Then  I  dream  in  the  shade  of  the  shally-go-shee, 

And  the  voice  of  the  bally-molay 
Brings  the  smell   of  stale  poppy-cods   blummered 

in  blet 
From  the  willy-wad  over  the  way. 

Ah,  the  shuddering  shoo  and  the  blinketty-blanks 

When  the  yungalung  falls  from  the  bough 
In  the  blast  of  a  hurricane's  hicketty-hanks 

On  the  hills  of  the  hocketty-how! 
Give  the  rigamarole  to  the  clangery-whang, 

If  they  care  for  such  fiddlededee  ; 
But  the  thingumbob  kiss  of  the  whangery-bang 

Keeps  the  higgledy-piggle  for  me. 
f'4] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


I/ENVOI 

It  is  pilly-po-doddle  and  aligobung 

When  the  lollypop  covers  the  ground, 
Yet  the  poldiddle  perishes  punketty-pung 

When  the  heart  jimmy-coggles  around. 
If  the  soul  cannot  snoop  at  the  giggle-some  cart, 

Seeking  surcease  in  gluggety-glug, 
[t  is  useless  to  say  to  the  pulsating  heart, 

"  Panky -doodle  ker-chuggetty-chug  !  " 

John  Bennett. 


LUNAR   STANZAS 

NrIGHT  saw  the  crew  like  pedlers  with  their 
packs 
Altho'  it  were  too  dear  to  pay  for  eggs  ; 
Walk  crank  along  with  coffin  on  their  backs 
While  in  their  arms  they  bow  their  weary  legs. 

And  yet  't  was  strange,  and  scarce  can  one  suppose 
That  a  brown  buzzard-fly  should  steal  and  wear 

His  white  jean  breeches  and  black  woollen  hose, 
But  thence  that  flies  have  souls  is  very  clear. 

But,  Holy  Father  !  what  shall  save  the  soul, 

When  cobblers  ask  three  dollars  for  their  shoes  ? 
When  cooks  their  biscuits  with  a  shot-tower  roll, 
And    farmers    rake   their   hay-cocks   with    their 
hoes. 

C'5] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Yet,  't  were  profuse  to  see  for  pendant  light, 

A  tea-pot  dangle  in  a  lady's  ear; 
And  'twere  indelicate,  although  she  might 

Swallow   two   whales   and   yet  the  moon   shine 
clear. 

But  what  to  me  are  woven  clouds,  or  what, 

If  dames  from  spiders  learn  to  warp  their  looms  ? 

If  coal-black  ghosts  turn  soldiers  for  the  State, 
With     wooden     eyes,    and     lightning-rods     for 
plumes  ? 

Oh  !   too,  too  shocking  !  barbarous,  savage  taste  ! 

To  eat  one's  mother  ere  itself  was  born  ! 
To  gripe  the  tall  town-steeple  by  the  waste, 

And  scoop  it  out  to  be  his  drinking-horn. 

No  more  :  no  more  !      I  'm  sick  and  dead  and  gone  ; 

Boxed  in  a  coffin,  stifled  six  feet  deep  ; 
Thorns,  fat  and  fearless,  prick  my  skin  and  bone, 

And  revel  o'er  me,  like  a  soulless  sheep. 

Henry  Coggswell  Knight,  1815. 


NONSENSE 

OH  that   my   Lungs  could  bleat   like  butter'd 
Pease  ; 
But  bleating  of  my  lungs  hath  Caught  the 

itch, 

And  are  as  mangy  as  the  Irish  Seas 
That  offer  wary  windmills  to  the  Rich. 
[.6] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

I  grant  that  Rainbowes  being  lull'd  asleep, 
Snort  like  a  woodknife  in  a  Lady's  eyes  ; 

Which  makes  her  grieve  to  see  a  pudding  creep, 
For  Creeping  puddings  only  please  the  wise. 

Not  that  a  hard-row'd  herring  should  presume 
To  swing  a  tyth  pig  in  a  Cateskin  purse  ; 

For  fear  the  hailstons  which  did  fall  at  Rome, 
By  lesning  of  the  fault  should  make  it  worse. 

For  'tis  most  certain  Winter  woolsacks  grow 
From  geese  to  swans  if  men  could  keep  them  so, 

Till  that  the  sheep  shorn  Planets  gave  the  hint 
To  pickle  pancakes  in  Geneva  print. 

Som<»  men  there  were  that  did  suppose  the  skie 
Was  made  of  Carbonado'd  Antidotes  ; 

But  my  opinion  is,  a  Whale's  left  eye, 

Need  not  be  coyned  all  King  Harry  groates. 

The  reason's  plain,  for  Charon's  Westerne  barge 
Running  a  tilt  at  the  Subjunctive  mood, 

Beckoned  to  Bednal  Green,  and  gave  him  charge 
To  fasten  padlockes  with  Antartic  food. 

The  End  will  be  the  Mill  ponds  must  be  laded, 
To  fish  for  white  pots  in  a  Country  dance  ; 

So  they  that  suffered  wrong  and  were  upbraded 
Shall  be  made  friends  in  a  left-handed  trance. 


l6f/. 
[a]  [17]      t- 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

SONNET   FOUND  IN  A   DESERTED 
MAD   HOUSE 

OH  that  my  soul  a  marrow-bone  might  seize ! 
For  the  old  egg  of  my  desire  is  broken, 
Spilled  is  the  pearly   white  and  spilled  the 

yolk,  and 

As  the  mild  melancholy  contents  grease 
My  path  the  shorn  lamb  baas  like  bumblebees. 
Time's  trashy  purse  is  as  a  taken  token 
Or  like  a  thrilling  recitation,  spoken 
By  mournful  mouths  filled  full  of  mirth  and  cheese. 

And  yet,  why  should  I  clasp  the  earthful  urn  ? 

Or  find  the  frittered  fig  that  felt  the  fast  ? 

Or  choose  to  chase  the  cheese  around  the  churn  ? 

Or  swallow  any  pill  from  out  the  past  ? 

Ah,  no  Love,  not  while  your  hot  kisses  burn 

Like  a  potato  riding  on  the  blast. 

Anonymous. 


THE   OCEAN   WANDERER 

BRIGHT  breaks  the  warrior   o'er   the   ocean 
wave 
Through  realms  that  rove  not,  clouds  that 

cannot  save, 

Sinks  in  the  sunshine ;  dazzles  o'er  the  tomb 
And  mocks  the  mutiny  of  Memory's  gloom. 
[18] 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 

Oh  !   who  can  feel  the  crimson  ecstasy 

That    soothes    with    bickering    jar    the    Glorious 

Tree  ? 

O'er  the  high  rock  the  foam  of  gladness  throws, 
While  star-beams  lull  Vesuvius  to  repose : 
Girds  the  white  spray,  and  in  the  blue  lagoon, 
Weeps  like  a  walrus  o'er  the  waning  moon  ? 
Who  can  declare  ?  —  not  thou,  pervading  boy 
Whom  pibrochs  pierce  not,  crystals  cannot  cloy  ;  — 
Not  thou  soft  Architect  of  silvery  gleams, 
Whose  soul  would  simmer  in  Hesperian  streams, 
Th'  exhaustless  fire  —  the  bosom's  azure  bliss, 
That  hurtles,  life-like,  o'er  a  scene  like  this ;  — 
Defies  the  distant  agony  of  Day  — 
And  sweeps  o'er  hetacombs  —  away  !  away  ! 
Say  shall  Destruction's  lava  load  the  gale, 
The  furnace  quiver  and  the  mountain  quail  ? 
Say  shall  the  son  of  Sympathy  pretend 
His  cedar  fragrance  with  our  Chiefs  to  blend  ? 
There,  where  the  gnarled  monuments  of  sand 
Howl  their  dark  whirlwinds  to  the  levin  brand; 
Conclusive  tenderness  ;   fraternal  grog, 
Tidy  conjunction  ;  adamantine  bog, 
Impetuous  arrant  toadstool ;  Thundering  quince, 
Repentant  dog-star,  inessential  Prince, 
Expound.      Pre-Adamite  eventful  gun, 
Crush  retribution,  currant-jelly,  pun, 
Oh  !  eligible  Darkness,  fender,  sting, 
Heav'n-born  Insanity,  courageous  thing. 
Intending,  bending,  scouring,  piercing  all, 
Death  like  pomatum,  tea,  and  crabs  must  fall. 

Anonymous. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

SHE'S   ALL   MY   FANCY   PAINTED 
HIM 


SHE's  all  my  fancy  painted  him, 
(I  make  no  idle  boast)  ; 
If  he  or  you  had  lost  a  limb, 
Which  would  have  suffered  most  ? 


He  said  that  you  had  been  to  her, 
And  seen  me  here  before : 

But,  in  another  character 
She  was  the  same  of  yore. 

There  was  not  one  that  spoke  to  us, 
Of  all  that  thronged  the  street; 

So  he  sadly  got  into  a  'bus, 
And  pattered  with  his  feet. 

They  told  me  you  had  been  to  her, 
And  mentioned  me  to  him  j 

She  gave  me  a  good  character, 
But  said  I  could  not  swim. 


He  sent  them  word  I  had  not  gone 
(We  know  it  to  be  true) ; 

If  she  should  push  the  matter  on, 
What  would  become  of  you  ? 

[20] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

I  gave  her  one,  they  gave  him  two, 

You  gave  us  three  or  more ; 
They  all  returned  from  him  to  you, 

Though  they  were  mine  before. 

If  I  or  she  should  chance  to  be 

Involved  in  this  affair, 
He  trusts  to  you  to  set  them  free, 

Exactly  as  we  were. 

My  notion  was  that  you  had  been 

(Before  she  had  this  fit) 
An  obstacle  that  came  between 

Him,  and  ourselves,  and  it. 

Don't  let  him  know  she  liked  them  best, 

For  this  must  ever  be 
A  secret,  kept  from  all  the  rest, 

Between  yourself  and  me. 

Lewis  Carroll. 


MY  RECOLLECTEST    THOUGHTS* 


M 


Y  recollectest  thoughts  are  those 

Which  I  remember  yet ; 
And  bearing  on,  as  you  'd  suppose, 
The  things  I  don't  forget. 


*  By  permission  of  the  author;  from  "  Davy  and  the  Goblin," 
copyright,  1884,  1885,  by  The  Century  Co.;  1885,  by  Ticknor 
&Co. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

But  my  resemblest  thoughts  are  less 

Alike  than  they  should  be  ; 
A  state  of  things,  as  you  'II  confess, 

You  very  seldom  see. 

And  yet  the  mostest  thought  I  love 

Is  what  no  one  believes  — 
That  I  'm  the  sole  survivor  of 

The  famous  Forty  Thieves ! 

Charles  E.  Carry!. 


FATHER   WILLIAM 

YOU   are    old,   Father  William,"  the  young 
man  said, 
u  And  your  nose  has  a  look  of  surprise  ; 
Your  eyes  have  turned  round  to  the  back  of  your 

head, 

And  you  live  upon  cucumber  pies." 
"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  the  old  man  replied, 

u  And  it  comes  from  employing  a  quack, 
Who  said  if  I  laughed  when  the  crocodile  died 
I  should  never  have  pains  in  my  back." 

"You  are  old,  Father  William,"  the  young  man 
said, 

"  And  your  legs  always  get  in  your  way  ; 
You  use  too  much  mortar  in  mixing  your  bread, 

And  you  try  to  drink  timothy  hay." 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  Very  true,  very  true,"  said  the  wretched  old  man, 
"  Every  word  that  you  tell  me  is  true  ; 

And  it 's  caused  by  my  having  my  kerosene  can 
Painted  red  where  it  ought  to  be  blue." 

"You   are  old,  Father  William,"  the  young   man 
said, 

"And  your  teeth  are  beginning  to  freeze, 
Your  favorite  daughter  has  wheels  in  her  head, 

And  the  chickens  are  eating  your  knees." 
"  You  are  right,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  cannot  deny, 

That  my  troubles  are  many  and  great, 
But  I  '11  butter  my  ears  on  the  Fourth  of  July, 

And  then  I  '11  be  able  to  skate." 

Anonymous. 


IN   THE   GLOAMING 

THE  twilight  twiles  in  the  vernal  vale, 
In  adumbration  of  azure  awe, 
And  I  listlessly  list  in  my  swallow-tail 
To  the  limpet  licking  his  limber  jaw. 
And  it 's  O  for  the  sound  of  the  daffodil, 

For  the  dry  distillings  of  prawn  and  prout, 
When  hope  hops  high  and  a  heather  hill 

Is  a  dear  delight  and  a  darksome  doubt. 
The  snagwap  sits  in  the  bosky  brae 

And  sings  to  the  gumplet  in  accents  sweet ; 
The  gibwink  has  n't  a  word  to  say, 

But  pensively  smiles  at  the  fair  keeweet. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  it 's  O  for  the  jungles  of  Boorabul. 

For  the  jingling  jungles  to  jangle  in, 
With  a  moony  maze  of  mellado  mull, 

And  a  protoplasm  for  next  of  kin. 
O,  sweet  is  the  note  of  the  shagreen  shard 

And  mellow  the  mew  of  the  mastodon, 
When  the  soboliferous  Somminard 

Is  scenting  the  shadows  at  set  of  sun. 
And  it 's  O  for  the  timorous  tamarind 

In  the  murky  meadows  of  Mariboo, 
For  the  suave  sirocco  of  Sazerkind, 

And  the  pimpernell  pellets  of  Pangipoo. 

Jama  C.  Bayles, 


BALLAD   OF   BEDLAM 

OH,  lady,  wake !  the  azure  moon 
Is  rippling  in  the  verdant  skies, 
The  owl  is  warbling  his  soft  *:une, 
Awaiting  but  thy  snowy  eyes. 
The  joys  of  future  years  are  past, 

To-morrow's  hopes  have  fled  away  ; 
Still  let  us  love,  and  e'en  at  last 
We  shall  be  happy  yesterday. 

The  early  beam  of  rosy  night 
Drives  off  the  ebon  morn  afar, 

While  through  the  murmur  of  the  light 
The  huntsman  winds  his  mad  guitar. 
[H] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Then,  lady,  wake  !   my  brigantine 

Pants,  neighs,  and  prances  to  be  free ; 

Till  the  creation  I  am  thine, 

To  some  rich  desert  fly  with  me. 

Punch. 


'TIS   SWEET   TO   ROAM 

t>r  I  "A  IS  sweet  to  roam  when  morning's  light 

Resounds  across  the  deep  ; 
And    the    crystal    song   of  the   woodbine 

bright 

Hushes  the  rocks  to  sleep, 
And  the  blood-red  moon  in  the  blaze  of  noon 

Is  bathed  in  a  crumbling  dew, 
And  the  wolf  rings  out  with  a  glittering  shout, 
To-whit,  to-whit,  to-whoo  ! 

Anonymous. 


HYMN   TO   THE   SUNRISE 

THE  dreamy  crags  with  raucous  voices  croon 
Across  the  zephyr's  heliotrope  career ; 
I  sit  contentedly  upon  the  moon 
And  watch  the  sunlight  trickle  round  the  sphere. 

The  shiny  trill  of  jagged,  feathered  rocks 
I  hear  with  glee  as  swift  I  fly  away ; 

And  over  waves  of  subtle,  woolly  flocks 
Crashes  the  breaking  day  ! 

Anonymous. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THE   MOON   IS   UP 

THE  moon  is  up,  the  moon  is  up ! 
The  larks  begin  to  fly, 
And,  like  a  drowsy  buttercup, 
Dark  Phoebus  skims  the  sky, 
The  elephant,  with  cheerful  voice, 

Sings  blithely  on  the  spray ; 
The  bats  and  beetles  all  rejoice, 
Then  let  me,  too,  be  gay. 

I  would  I  were  a  porcupine, 

And  wore  a  peacock's  tail ; 
To-morrow,  if  the  moon  but  shine, 

Perchance  I  '11  be  a  whale. 
Then  let  me,  like  the  cauliflower, 

Be  merry  while  I  may, 
And,  ere  there  comes  a  sunny  hour 

To  cloud  my  heart,  be  gay  ! 

Anonymous. 


'TIS    MIDNIGHT 

'A  •  A  IS  midnight,  and  the  setting  sun 
Is  slowly  rising  in  the  west; 
The  rapid  rivers  slowly  run, 
The  frog  is  on  his  downy  nest. 
The  pensive  goat  and  sportive  cow, 
Hilarious,  leap  from  bough  to  bough. 

Anonymous. 
[26] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

UPRISING    SEE    THE    FITFUL 
LARK 

UPRISING  see  the  fitful  lark 
Unfold  his  pinion  to  the  stream  ; 
The  pensive  watch-dog's  mellow  bark 
O'ershades  yon  cottage  like  a  dream : 
The  playful  duck  and  warbling  bee 
Hop  gayly  on,  from  tree  to  tree! 

How  calmly  could  my  spirit  rest 
Beneath  yon  primrose  bell  so  blue, 

And  watch  those  airy  oxen  drest 
In  every  tint  of  pearling  hue  ! 

As  on  they  hurl  the  gladsome  plough, 

While  fairy  zephyrs  deck  each  brow  ! 

Anonymous. 


LIKE    TO    THE    THUNDERING 
TONE 

LIKE    to    the    thundering    tone    of    unspoke 
speeches, 

Or  like  a  lobster  clad  in  logic  breeches, 
Or  like  the  gray  fur  of  a  crimson  cat, 
Or  like  the  mooncalf  in  a  slipshod  hat ; 
E'en  such  is  he  who  never  was  begotten 
Until  his  children  were  both  dead  and  rotten. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Like  to  the  fiery  tombstone  of  a  cabbage, 

Or  like  a  crab-louse  with  its  bag  and  baggage, 

Or  like  the  four  square  circle  of  a  ring, 

Or  like  to  hey  ding,  ding-a,  ding-a,  ding; 

E'en  such  is  he  who  spake,  and  yet,  no  doubt, 

Spake  to  small  purpose,  when  his  tongue  was  out. 

Like  to  a  fair,  fresh,  fading,  wither'd  rose, 
Or  like  to  rhyming  verse  that  runs  in  prose, 
Or  like  the  stumbles  of  a  tinder-box, 
Or  like  a  man  that  's  sound  yet  sickness  mocks  ; 
E'en  such  is  he  who  died  and  yet  did  laugh 
To  see  these  lines  writ  for  his  epitaph. 

Bishop  Corbet 

in  ifth  century. 


MY   DREAM 

I  DREAM  ED  a  dream  next  Tuesday  week, 
Beneath  the  apple-trees ; 
I  thought  my  eyes  were  big  pork-pies, 
And  my  nose  was  Stilton  cheese. 
The  clock  struck  twenty  minutes  to  six, 

When  a  frog  sat  on  my  knee ; 
t  asked  him  to  lend  me  eighteenpence, 
But  he  borrowed  a  shilling  of  me. 

Anonymous, 


[28] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


MY   HOME 

MY  home  is  on  the  rolling  deep, 
I  spend  my  time  a-feeding  sheep ; 
And  when  the  waves  on  high  are  running, 
I  take  my  gun  and  go  a-gunning. 
I  shoot  wild  ducks  down  deep  snake-holes, 
And  drink  gin-sling  from  two-quart  bowls. 

Anonymous. 


IN   IMMEMORIAM 

WE  seek  to  know,  and  knowing  seek ; 
We  seek,  we  know,  and  every  sense 
Is  trembling  with  the  great  intense, 
And  vibrating  to  what  we  speak. 

We  ask  too  much,  we  seek  too  oft ; 

We  know  enough  and  should  no  more ; 

And  yet  we  skim  through  Fancy's  lore, 
And  look  to  earth  and  not  aloft. 

O  Sea  !  whose  ancient  ripples  lie 

On  red-ribbed  sands  where  seaweeds  shone; 

O  moon  !   whose  golden  sickle  's  gone, 
O  voices  all  !  like  you  I  die ! 

Cutbbert  Bede. 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 

THE   HIGHER    PANTHEISM   IN   A 
NUTSHELL 


o 


NE,  who  is  not,  we  see ;  but  one,  whom  we 

see  not,  is ; 

Surely,  this    is    not   that ;    but  that    is   as- 
suredly  this. 


What,  and  wherefore,  and  whence:  for  under  is 

over  and   under; 
If  thunder   could   be  without   lightning,  lightning 

could  be  without  thunder. 


Doubt    is    faith    in   the  main ;    but    faith,  on  the 

whole,  is  doubt ; 
We  cannot  believe  by  proof;  but  could  we  believe 

without  ? 

Why,  and  whither,  and  how  ?  for  barley  and  rye 

are  not  clover; 
Neither  are  straight  lines  curves  ;  yet  over  is  under 

and  over. 

One  and  two  are  not  one  ;  but  one  and  nothing  is 

two ; 
Truth  can  hardly  be  false,  if  falsehood  cannot  be 

true. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Parallels   all    things  are ;    yet   many  of   these  are 

askew ; 
You  are  certainly  I ;  but  certainly  I  am  not  you. 


One,  whom  we  see  not,  is;  and  one,  who  is  not, 

we  see ; 
Fiddle,  we  know,  is  diddle;  and  diddle,  we  take  it, 

is  dee. 

A.  C.  Swinburne. 


DARWINITY 


POWER    to    thine    elbow,    thou    newest    of 
sciences, 
All  the  old  landmarks  are  ripe  for  decay  ; 
Wars  are  but  shadows,  and  so  are  alliances, 
Darwin  the  great  is  the  man  of  the  day. 

All  other  'ologies  want  an  apology ; 

Bread  's  a  mistake —  Science  offers  a  stone  ; 
Nothing  is  true  but  Anthropobiology  — 

Darwin  the  great  understands  it  alone. 

Mighty  the  great  evolutionist  teacher  is, 
Licking  Morphology  clean  into  shape  \ 

Lord  !  what  an  ape  the  Professor  or  Preacher  is, 
Ever  to  doubt  his  descent  from  an  ape. 


A   Nonsense  Anthology 

Man  's  an  Anthropoid  —  he  cannot  help  that,  you 

know  — 

First  evoluted  from  Pongos  of  old ; 
He 's    but    a    branch  of   the    catarrhine   cat,    you 

know  — 
Monkey  I  mean  —  that 's  an  ape  with  a  cold. 

Fast  dying  out  are  man's  later  Appearances, 

Cataclysmitic  Geologies  gone ; 
Now  of  Creation  completed  the  clearance  is, 

Darwin  alone  you  must  anchor  upon. 

Primitive  Life  —  Organisms  were  chemical, 
Busting  spontaneous  under  the  sea; 

Purely  subaqueous,  panaquademical, 
Was  the  original  Crystal  of  Me. 

I  'm  the  Apostle  of  mighty  Darwinity, 

Stands  for  Divinity  —  sounds  much  the  same  — 

Apo-theistico-Pan-Asininity 

Only  can  doubt  whence  the  lot  of  us  came. 

Down  on  your  knees,  Superstition  and   Flunkey- 
dom  ! 

Won't  you  accept  such  plain  doctrines  instead  ? 
What  is  so  simple  as  primitive  Monkeydom 

Born  in  the  sea  with  a  cold  in  its  head  ? 

Herman  Merivale. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


SONG   OF   THE   SCREW 

AMOVING  form  or  rigid  mass, 
Under  whate'er  conditions 
Along  successive  screws  must  pass 
Between  each  two  positions. 
It  turns  around  and  slides  along  — 
This  is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

The  pitch  of  screw,  if  multiplied 

By  angle  of  rotation, 
Will  give  the  distance  it  must  glide 

In  motion  of  translation. 
Infinite  pitch  means  pure  translation, 
And  zero  pitch  means  pure  rotation. 

Two  motions  on  two  given  screws, 
With  amplitudes  at  pleasure, 

Into  a  third  screw-motion  fuse  ; 

Whose  amplitude  we  measure 

By  parallelogram  construction 

(A  very  obvious  deduction.) 

Its  axis  cuts  the  nodal  line 

Which  to  both  screws  is  normal, 
And  generates  a  form  divine, 

Whose  name,  in  language  formal,, 
Is  "surface-ruled  of  third  degree." 
Cylindroid  is  the  name  for  me. 
[3]  [33] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Rotation  round  a  given  line 

Is  like  a  force  along. 
If  to  say  couple  you  incline, 

You  're  clearly  in  the  wrong ;  — 
'T  is  obvious,  upon  reflection, 
A  line  is  not  a  mere  direction. 

So  couples  with  translations  too 

In  all  respects  agree  ; 
And  thus  there  centres  in  the  screw 

A  wondrous  harmony 
Of  Kinematics  and  of  Statics,  — 
The  sweetest  thing  in  mathematics. 

The  forces  on  one  given  screw, 
With  motion  on  a  second, 

In  general  some  work  will  do, 

Whose  magnitude  is  reckoned 

By  angle,  force,  and  what  we  call 

The  coefficient  virtual. 

Rotation  now  to  force  convert, 
And  force  into  rotation  ; 

Unchanged  the  work,  we  can  assert, 
In  spite  of  transformation. 

And  if  two  screws  no  work  can  claim. 

Reciprocal  will  be  their  name. 

Five  numbers  will  a  screw  define, 
A  screwing  motion,  six  •, 

For  four  will  give  the  axial  line, 
One  more  the  pitch  will  fix ; 
[34] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And*hence  we  always  can  contrive 
One  screw  reciprocal  to  five. 

Screws  —  two,  three,  four  or  five,  combined 

(No  question  here  of  six), 
Yield  other  screws  which  are  confined 

Within  one  screw  complex. 
Thus  we  obtain  the  clearest  notion 
Of  freedom  and  constraint  of  motion. 

In  complex  III.,  three  several  screws 

At  every  point  you  find, 
Or  if  you  one  direction  choose, 

One  screw  is  to  your  mind ; 
And  complexes  of  order  III. 
Their  own  reciprocals  may  be. 

In  IV.,  wherever  you  arrive, 

You  find  of  screws  a  cone, 
On  every  line  in  complex  V. 

There  is  precisely  one ; 
At  each  point  of  this  complex  rich, 
A  plane  of  screws  have  given  pitch. 

But  time  would  fail  me  to  discourse 

Of  Order  and  Degree ; 
Of  Impulse,  Energy  and  Force, 

And  Reciprocity. 

All  these  and  more,  for  motions  small, 
Have  been  discussed  by  Dr.  Ball. 

Anonymous. 

[35] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

b 
MOORLANDS   OF   THE   NOT 

ACROSS  the  moorlands  of  the  Not 
We  chase  the  gruesome  When  ; 
And  hunt  the  Itness  of  the  What 
Through  forests  of  the  Then. 
Into  the  Inner  Consciousness 

We  track  the  crafty  Where ; 
We  spear  the  Ego  tough,  and  beard 
The  Selfhood  in  his  lair. 

With  lassos  of  the  brain  we  catch 

The  Isness  of  the  Was ; 
And  in  the  copses  of  the  Whence 

We  hear  the  think  bees  buzz. 
We  climb  the  slippery  Whichbark  tree 

To  watch  the  Thusness  roll  • 
And  pause  betimes  in  gnostic  rimes 

To  woo  the  Over  Soul. 

Anonymous. 

METAPHYSICS* 

WHY  and  Wherefore  set  out  one  day 
To  hunt  for  a  wild  Negation. 
They  agreed  to  meet  at  a  cool  retreat 
On  the  Point  of  Interrogation. 

*  By  permission  of  the  author  ;  from  "  The  Bashful  Earthquake,*' 
copyright,  1898. 

[36] 


A   Nonsense    Anthology 

But  the  night  was  dark  and  they  missed  their  mark, 
And,  driven  well-nigh  to  distraction, 

They  lost  their  ways  in  a  murky  maze 
Of  utter  abstruse  abstraction. 

Then  they  took  a  boat  and  were  soon  afloat 

On  a  sea  of  Speculation, 
But  the  sea  grew  rough,  and  their  boat,  though  tough, 

Was  split  into  an  Equation. 

As  they  floundered  about  in  the  waves  of  doubt 

Rose  a  fearful  Hypothesis, 
Who  gibbered  with  glee  as  they  sank  in  the  sea, 

And  the  last  they  saw  was  this  : 

On  a  rock-bound  reef  of  Unbelief 

There  sat  the  wild  Negation  ; 
Then  they  sank  once  more  and  were  washed  ashore 

At  the  Point  of  Interrogation. 

Oliver  Herford. 


ABSTROSOPHY  * 

IF  echoes  from  the  fitful  past 
Could  rise  to  mental  view, 
Would  all  their  fancied  radiance  last 
Or  would  some  odors  from  the  blast, 
Untouched  by  Time,  accrue  ? 

*  By  permission   of  the   author;    from    "The   Burgess   Nonsense 
Book,"  copyright,  1901. 

[37] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Is  present  pain  a  future  bliss, 

Or  is  it  something  worse  ? 
For  instance,  take  a  case  like  this  : 
Is  fancied  kick  a  real  kiss, 

Or  rather  the  reverse  ? 

Is  plenitude  of  passion  palled 

By  poverty  of  scorn  ? 

Does  Fiction  mend  where  Fact  has  mauled  ? 
Has  Death  its  wisest  victims  called 

When  idiots  are  born  ? 

Gelett  Burgess. 


ABSTEMIA* 

In  Mystic  Argot  often  Confounded  with  Farrago 

IF  aught  that  stumbles  in  my  speech 
Or  stutters  in  my  pen, 
Or,  claiming  tribute,  each  to  each, 
Rise,  not  to  fall  again, 
Let  something  lowlier  far,  for  me, 

Through  evanescent  shades  — 
Than  which  my  spirit  might  not  be 

Nourished  in  fitful  ecstasy 
Not  less  to  know  but  more  to  see 
Where  that  great  Bliss  pervades. 

Gelett  Burgess. 

*  By   permission  of  the  author  ;   from    "The   Burgess   Nonsense 
Book,"   copyright,    1901. 

[38] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 
PSYCHOLOPHON  * 

Supposed  to  be  Translated  from  the  Old  Parsee 


rrVWINE  then  the  rays 

Round  her  soft  Theban  tissues  ! 
All  will  be  as  She  says, 
When  that  dead  past  reissues. 
Matters  not  what  nor  where, 

Hark,  to  the  moon's  dim  cluster  ! 
How  was  her  heavy  hair 

Lithe  as  a  feather  duster  ! 
Matters  not  when  nor  whence  ; 

Flittertigibbet  ! 

Sounds  make  the  song,  not  sense, 
Thus  I  inhibit  ! 

Gelett  Burgess. 

TIMON   OF   ARCHIMEDES  t 

AS  one  who  cleaves  the  circumambient  air 
Seeking  in  azure  what  it  lacks  in  space, 
And  sees  a  young  and  finely  chiselled  face 
Filled  with  foretastes  of  wisdom  yet  more  rare  ; 
Touching  and  yet  untouched  —  unmeasured  grace  ! 
A  breathing  credo  and  a  living  prayer  — 
Yet  of  the  earth,  still  earthy  ;  debonair 
The  while  in  heaven  it  seeketh  for  a  place. 

*  By  permission  of  the  author;  from  "The  Burgess  Nonsense 
Book,"  copyright,  1901. 

f  By  permission  of  R.  H.  Russell;  from  "Just  Rhymes,"  copy- 
right, 1899. 

[39] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

So  thy  dear  eyes  and  thy  kind  lips  but  say  — 
Ere  from  his  cerements  Timon  seems  to  flit : 

"  What  of  the  reaper  grim  with  sickle  keen  ?  " 
And  then  the  sunlight  ushers  in  new  day 

And  for  our  tasks  our  bodies  seem  more  fit  — 
"  Might  of  the  night,  unfleeing,  sight  unseen." 

Charles  Battell  Loomis. 


ALONE 

ALONE  !  Alone ! 
I  sit  in  the  solitudes  of  the  moonshades, 
Soul-hungering  in  the  moonshade  solitudes 

sit  I  — 

My  heart-lifts  beaten  down  in  the  wild  wind-path. 
Oppressed,  and  scourged  and  beaten  down  are  my 

heart-lifts. 
I  fix  my  gaze  on  the  eye-star,  and  the  eye-star  flings 

its  dart  upon  me. 

I  wonder  why  my  soul  is  lost  in  wonder  why  I  am, 
And  why  the  eye-star  mocks  me, 
Why  the  wild  wind  beats  down  my  heart-lifts  ; 
Why  I  am  stricken  here  in  the  moonshade  solitudes. 
Oh  !   why  am  I  what  I  am, 
And  why  am  I  anything  ? 

Am  I  not  as  wild  as  the  wind  and  more  crazy  ? 
Why  do  I  sit   in  the  moonshade,  while  the  eye- 
star  mocks  me  while  I  ask  what  I  am  ? 
Why?  Why? 

Anonymous. 


I 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


LINES   BY   A   MEDIUM 


I 


MIGHT  not,  if  I  could; 

I  should  not,  if  I  might ; 
Yet  if  I  should  I  would, 
And,  shoulding,  I  should  quite  ! 


I  must  not,  yet  I  may  ; 

I  can,  and  still  I  must ; 
But  ah  !   I  cannot  —  nay, 

To  must  I  may  not,  just ! 

I  shall,  although  I  will, 

But  be  it  understood, 
If  I  may,  can,  shall  —  still 

I  might,  could,  would,  or  should  ! 

Anonymous. 


TRANSCENDENTALISM 

T  is  told,  in  Buddhi-theosophic  schools, 

There  are  rules, 

By  observing  which,  when  mundane  labor  irks 
One  can  simulate  quiescence 
By  a  timely  evanescence 
From  his  Active  Mortal  Essence, 
(Or  his  Works.) 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

The  particular  procedure  leaves  research 

In  the  lurch, 

But,  apparently,  this  matter-moulded  form 
Is  a  kind  of  outer  plaster, 
Which  a  well-instructed  Master 
Can  remove  without  disaster 
When  he  's  warm. 


And  to  such  as  mourn  an  Indian  Solar  Clime 

At  its  prime 

'T  were  a  thesis  most  immeasurably  fit, 
So  expansively  elastic, 
And  so  plausibly  fantastic, 
That  one  gets  enthusiastic 
For  a  bit. 

From  the  Times  of  India. 


INDIFFERENCE 

IN  loopy  links  the  canker  crawls, 
Tads  twiddle  in  their  'polian  glee, 
Yet  sinks  my  heart  as  water  falls. 
The  loon  that  laughs,  the  babe  that  bawls, 
The  wedding  wear,  the  funeral  palls, 
Are  neither  here  nor  there  to  me. 

Of  life  the  mingled  wine  and  brine 
I  sit  and  sip  pipslipsily. 

Anonymous. 


A   Nonsense    Anthology 


HEART-FOAM 

H  !  to  be  wafted  away 

From  this  black  Aceldama  ot  sorrow, 
Where  the  dust  or  an  earthy  to-day 
Makes  the  earth  ot  a  dusty  to-monx>w. 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 


0 


COSSIMBAZAR 

COME  fleetly,  come  fleetly,  my  hookabadar, 
For  the  sound  of  the  tam-tam  is  heard  from 
afar. 

"  Banoolah  !  Banoolah  !  "    The  Brahmins  are  nigh, 
And  the  depths  of  the  jungle  re-echo  their  cry. 
Pestonjee  Bomanjee  ! 
Smite  the  guitar; 
Join  in  the  chorus,  my  hookabadar. 

Heed  not  the  blast  of  the  deadly  monsoon, 

Nor  the  blue  Brahmaputra  that  gleams  in  the  moon. 

Stick  to  thy  music,  and  oh,  let  the  sound 

Be  heard  with  distinctness  a  mile  or  two  round. 

Jamsetjee,  "Jeejeebhoy  ! 

Sweep  the  guitar. 

Join  in  the  chorus,  my  hookabadar. 
[43] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Art  thou  a  Buddhist,  or  dost  thou  indeed 

Put  faith  in  the  monstrous  Mohammedan  creed  ? 

Art  thou  a  Ghebir  —  a  blinded  Parsee  ? 

Not  that  it  matters  an  atom  to  me. 

Cursetjee  Bomanjee  ! 

Twang  the  guitar 
Join  in  the  chorus,  my  hookabadar. 

Henry  S.  Leigh. 

THE     PERSONIFIED 
SENTIMENTAL* 

A  FFECTION'S  charm  no  longer  gilds 
/-\          The  idol  of  the  shrine  ; 

But  cold  Oblivion  seeks  to  fill 
Regret's  ambrosial  wine. 
Though  Friendship's  offering  buried  lies 

'Neath  cold  Aversion's  snow, 
Regard  and  Faith  will  ever  bloom 
Perpetually  below. 

I  see  thee  whirl  in  marble  halls, 

In  Pleasure's  giddy  train ^ 
Remorse  is  never  on  that  brow, 

Nor  Sorrow's  mark  of  pain. 
Deceit  has  marked  thee  for  her  own ; 

Inconstancy  the  same ; 
And  Ruin  wildly  sheds  its  gleam 

Athwart  thy  path  of  shame. 

Bret  Harte. 

*   By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  authorized  publishers 
of  Bret  Harte' s  works. 

f  443 


0 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 
A   CLASSIC   ODE* 

H,  limpid  stream  of  Tyrus,  now  I  hear 

The  pulsing  wings  of  Armageddon's  host, 
Clear  as  a  colcothar  and  yet  more  clear  — 
(Twin  orbs,  like  those  of   which   the  Parsees 
boast ;) 


Down  in  thy  pebbled  deeps  in  early  spring 
The  dimpled  naiads  sport,  as  in  the  time 

When  Ocidelus  with  untiring  wing 

Drave  teams  of  prancing  tigers,  'mid  the  chime 

Of  all  the  bells  of  Phicol.     Scarcely  one 

Peristome  veils  its  beauties  now,  but  then  — 

Like  nascent  diamonds,  sparkling  in  the  sun, 
Or  sainfoin,  circinate,  or  moss  in  marshy  fen. 

Loud  as  the  blasts  of  Tubal,  loud  and  strong, 
Sweet  as  the  songs  of  Sappho,  aye  more  sweet ; 

Long  as  the  spear  of  Arnon,  twice  as  long, 

What  time  he  hurled  it  at  King  Pharaoh's  feet. 

Charles  Battell  Loomis. 

WHERE   AVALANCHES   WAIL 

WHERE  avalanches  wail,  and  green  Distress 
Sweeps  o'er  the  pallid  beak  of  loveliness  : 
Where  melancholy  Sulphur  holds  her  sway  : 
Ana  cliffs  of  conscience  tremble  and  obey  ; 

*  By  permission  of  R.  H.  Russell;  from  "Just  Rhymes,"  copy- 
right, 1899. 

[45] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  where  Tartarean  rattlesnakes  expire ; 
Twisting  like  tendrils  of  a  hero's  pyre  ? 
No!  dancing  in  the  meteor's  hall  of  power, 
See,  Genius  ponders  o'er  Affection's  tower! 
A  form  of  thund'ring  import  soars  on  high, 
Hark  !   't  is  the  gore  of  infant  melody  : 
No  more  shall  verdant  Innocence  amuse 
The  lips  that  death-fraught  Indignation  glues  ;  — 
Tempests  shall  teach  the  trackless  tide  of  thought, 
That  undiminish'd  senselessness  is  naught; 
Freedom  shall  glare;   and  oh  !  ye  links  divine, 
The  Poet's  heart  shall  quiver  in  the  brine. 

Anonymous 


BLUE   MOONSHINE 

MINGLED  aye  with  fragrant  yearnings, 
Throbbing  in  the  mellow  glow, 
Glint  the  silvery  spirit-burnings, 
Pearly  blandishments  of  woe. 

Aye  !   forever  and  forever, 

Whilst  the  love-lorn  censers  sweep, 
Whilst  the  jasper  winds  dissever 

Amber-like  the  crystal  deep, 

Shall  the  soul's  delirious  slumber, 
Sea-green  vengeance  of  a  kiss, 
Teach  despairing  crags  to  number 
Blue  infinities  of  bliss. 

Francis  G.  Stokes. 
[46] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


NONSENSE 

GOOD  reader,  if  you  e'er  have  seen, 
When  Phoebus  hastens  to  his  pillow,, 
The  mermaids  with  their  tresses  green 
Dancing  upon  the  western  billow ; 
If  you  have  seen  at  twilight  dim, 
When  the  lone  spirit's  vesper  hymn 
Floats  wild  along  the  winding  shore, 
The  fairy  train  their  ringlets  weave 
Glancing  along  the  spangled  green  ;  — 
If  you  have  seen  all  this,  and  more, 
God  bless  me !   what  a  deal  you  've  seen  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 

SUPERIOR    NONSENSE    VERSES 

HE  comes  with  herald  clouds  of  dust ; 
Ecstatic  frenzies  rend  his  breast ; 
A  moment,  and  he  graced  the  earth  — 
Now,  seek  him  at  the  eagle's  nest. 

Hark  !   see'st  thou  not  the  torrent's  flash 
Far  shooting  o'er  the  mountain  height  ? 

Hear'st  not  the  billow's  solemn  roar, 

That  echoes  through  the  vaults  of  night  ? 

Anon  the  murky  cloud  is  riven, 

The  lightnings  leap  in  sportive  play, 

And  through  the  clanging  doors  of  heaven, 
In  calm  effulgence  bursts  the  day. 
[47] 


Nonsense   Anthology 


Hope,  peering  from  her  fleecy  car, 
Smiles  welcome  to  the  coming  spring, 

And  birds  with  blithesome  songs  of  praise 
Make  every  grove  and  valley  ring. 

What  though  on  pinions  of  the  blast 
The  sea-gulls  sweep  with  leaden  flight  ? 

What  though  the  watery  caverns  deep 
Gleam  ghostly  on  the  wandering  sight  ? 

Is  there  no  music  in  the  trees 

To  charm  thee  with  its  frolic  mirth  ? 

Must  Care's  wan  phantom  still  beguile 
And  chain  thee  to  the  stubborn  earth  ? 

Lo  !   Fancy  from  her  magic  realm 
Pours  Boreal  gleams  adown  the  pole. 

The  tidal  currents  lift  and  swell  — 
Dead  currents  of  the  ocean's  soul. 

Yet  never  may  their  mystic  streams 
Breathe  whispers  of  the  mournful  past, 

Or  Pallas  wake  her  sounding  lyre 
Mid  Ether's  columned  temples  vast. 

Grave  HisJory  walks  again  the  earth 

As  erst  it  did  in  days  of  eld, 
When  seated  on  the  golden  throne 

Her  hand  a  jewelled  sceptre  held. 

The  Delphian  oracle  is  dumb, 

Dread  Cumae  wafts  no  words  of  fate, 

To  fright  the  eager  souls  that  press 
Through  sullen  Lethe's  iron  gate. 
[48] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

But  deeper  shadows  gather  o'er 

The  vales  that  sever  night  and  morn  ; 

And  darkness  folds  with  brooding  wing 
The  rustling  fields  of  waving  corn. 

Then  issuing  from  his  bosky  lair 

The  crafty  tiger  crouches  low, 
Or  thunders  from  the  frozen  north 

The  white  bear  lapped  in  Arctic  snow. 

Thus  shift  the  scenes  till  high  aloft 

The  young  moon  sets  her  crescent  horn, 

And  in  gray  evening's  emerald  sea 
The  beauteous  Star  of  Love  is  born. 

Anonymous, 


WHEN   MOONLIKE  ORE   THE 
HAZURE  SEAS 

WHEN  moonlike  ore  the  hazure  seas 
In  soft  effulgence  swells, 
When  silver  jews  and  balmy  breaze 
Bend  down  the  Lily's  bells  ; 
When  calm  and  deap,  the  rosy  sleap 

Has  lapt  your  soal  in  dreems, 
R  Hangeline  !   R  lady  mine  ! 
Dost  thou  remember  Jeames  ? 

I  mark  thee  in  the  Marble  all, 

Where  England's  loveliest  shine  — 

I  say  the  fairest  of  them  hall 
Is  Lady  Hangeline. 
[ 4  ]  f  49  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

My  soul,  in  desolate  eclipse, 

With  recollection  teems  — 
And  then  I  hask,  with  weeping  lips, 

Dost  thou  remember  Jeames  ? 

Away  !   I  may  not  tell  thee  hall 

This-  soughring  heart  endures  — 
There  is  a  lonely  sperrit-call 

That  Sorrow  never  cures ; 
There  is  a  little,  little  Star, 

That  still  above  me  beams  ; 
It  is  the  Star  of  Hope  — but  ar  ! 

Dost  thou  remember  Jeames  ? 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


LINES  BY  A  PERSON  OF  QUALITY 

FLUTTERING  spread  thy  purple  pinions, 
Gentle  Cupid,  o'er  my  heart, 
I  a  slave  in  thy  dominions, 
Nature  must  give  way  to  art. 

Mild  Arcadians,  ever  blooming, 
Nightly  nodding  o'er  your  flocks, 

See  my  weary  days  consuming, 
All  beneath  yon  flowery  rocks. 

Thus  the  Cyprian  goddess  weeping, 

Mourned  Adonis,  darling  youth: 
Him  the  boar,  in  silence  creeping, 

Gored  with  unrelenting  tooth. 
[50] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Cynthia,  tune  harmonious  numbers  ; 

Fair  Discretion,  tune  the  lyre  ; 
Soothe  my  ever-waking  slumbers  j 

Bright  Apollo,  lend  thy  choir. 

Gloomy  Pluto,  king  of  terrors, 

Armed  in  adamantine  chains, 
Lead  me  to  the  crystal  mirrors, 

Watering  soft  Elysian  plains. 

Mournful  Cypress,  verdant  willow, 

Gilding  my  Aurelia's  brows, 
Morpheus,  hovering  o'er  my  pillow, 

Hear  me  pay  my  dying  vows. 

Melancholy,  smooth  Maeander, 

Swiftly  purling  in  a  round, 
On  thy  margin  lovers  wander 

With  thy  flowery  chaplets  crowned. 

Thus  when  Philomela,  drooping, 

Softly  seeks  her  silent  mate, 
So  the  bird  of  Juno  stooping  ; 

Melody  resigns  to  fate. 

Alexander  Pope. 


FRANGIPANNI 

T  T  NTWINE  those  ringlets !    Ev'ry  dainty  clasp 
That  shines  like  twisted  sunlight  in  my  eye 
Is  but  the  coiling  of  the  jewelled  asp 
That  smiles  to  see  men  die. 


Oh,  cobra-curled  !    Fiercc-fanged  fair  one  !     Draw 
Night's  curtain  o'er  the  landscape  of  thy  hair ! 

I  yield  !   I  kneel !     I  own,  1  bless  thy  law 
That  dooms  me  to  despair. 

I  mark  the  crimson  ruby  of  thy  lips, 

I  feel  the  witching  weirdness  of  thy  breath  ! 

I  droop  !      I  sink  into  my  soul's  eclipse,  — 
I  fall  in  love  with  death ! 

And  yet,  vouchsafe  a  moment !     I  would  gaze 
Once  more  into  those  sweetly-murderous  eyes, 

Soft  glimmering  athwart  the  pearly  haze 
That  smites  to  dusk  the  skies. 

Hast  thou  no  pity  ?      Must  I  darkly  tread 

The   unknown   paths   that   lead  me   wide  from 
thee  ? 

Hast  thou  no  garland  for  this  aching  head 
That  soon  so  low  must  be  ? 

No  sound  ?    No  sigh  ?    No  smile  ?    Is  all  forgot? 

Then  spin  my  shroud  out  of  that  golden  skein 
Thou  callst  thy  tresses  !      /  shall  stay  thee  not  — 

My  struggles  were  but  vain  ! 

But  shall  I  see  thee  far  beyond  the  sun, 

When  the  new  dawn  lights  Empyrean  scenes  ? 

What  matters  now  ?     I  know  the  poem  's  done, 
And  wonder  what  the  dickens  it  all  means  ! 

Anonymous. 
[52] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


LINES   BY   A   FOND   LOVER 

LOVELY  maid,  with  rapture  swelling, 
Should  these  pages  meet  thine  eye, 
Clouds  of  absence  soft  dispelling  ;  — 
Vacant  memory  heaves  a  sigh. 

As  the  rose,  with  fragrance  weeping, 
Trembles  to  the  tuneful  wave, 

So  my  heart  shall  twine  unsleeping, 
Till  it  canopies  the  grave. 

Though  another's  smile  's  requited, 
Envious  fate  my  doom  should  be; 

Joy  forever  disunited, 

Think,  ah  !   think,  at  times  on  me ! 

Oft,  amid  the  spicy  gloaming, 

Where  the  brakes  their  songs  instil, 

Fond  affection  silent  roaming, 
Loves  to  linger  by  the  rill  — 

There,  when  echo's  voice  consoling, 
Hears  the  nightingale  complain, 

Gentle  sighs  my  lips  controlling, 
Bind  my  soul  in  beauty's  chain. 

Oft  in  slumber's  deep  recesses, 

I  thy  mirror'd  image  see ; 
Fancy  mocks  the  vain  caresses 

I  would  lavish  like  a  bee  ! 
[53] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

But  how  vain  is  glittering  sadness! 

Hark,  I  hear  distraction's  knell ! 
Torture  gilds  my  heart  with  madness ! 

Now  forever  fare  thee  well ! 

Anonymou; 


FORCING   A   WAY 

HOW  many  strive  to  force  a  way 
Where  none  can  go  save  those  who  pay, 
To  verdant  plains  of  soft  delight 
The  homage  of  the  silent  night, 
When  countless  stars  from  pole  to  pole 
Around  the  earth  unceasing  roll 
In  roseate  shadow's  silvery  hue, 
Shine  forth  and  gild  the  morning  dew. 

And  must  we  really  part  for  good, 
But  meet  again  here  where  we  've  stood  ? 
No  more  delightful  trysting-place, 
We've  watched  sweet  Nature's  smiling  face. 
No  more  the  landscape's  lovely  brow, 
Exchange  our  mutual  breathing  vow. 
Then  should  the  twilight  draw  around 
No  loving  interchange  of  sound. 

Less  for  renown  than  innate  love, 
These  to  my  wish  must  recreant  prove  ; 
Nor  whilst  an  impulse  here  remain, 
Can  ever  hope  the  soul  to  gain  ; 
[54] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

For  memory  scanning  all  the  past, 
Relaxes  her  firm  bonds  at  last, 
And  gives  to  candor  all  the  grace 
The  heart  can  in  its  temple  trace. 

Anonymous. 


THY  HEART 

THY  heart  is  like  some  icy  lake, 
On  whose  cold  brink  I  stand  ; 
Oh,  buckle  on  my  spirit's  skate, 
And  lead,  thou  living  saint,  the  way 

To  where  the  ice  is  thin  — 
That  it  may  break  beneath  my  feet 
And  let  a  lover  in  ! 

Anonymous. 


A   LOVE-SONG   BY   A   LUNATIC 

r  I  ^HERE  's  not  a  spider  in  the  sky, 

There  's  not  a  glowworm  in  the  sea, 
There's  not  a  crab  that  soars  on  high, 
But  bids  me  dream,  dear  maid,  of  thee  ! 

When  watery  Phoebus  ploughs  the  main, 

When  fiery  Luna  gilds  the  lea, 
As  flies  run  up  the  window-pane, 

So  fly  my  thoughts,  dear  love,  to  thee  ! 

Anonymous 
[  55  ] 


I 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 


THE    PARTERRE 

DON'T  know  any  greatest  treat 
As  sit  him  in  a  gay  parterre, 
And  sniff  one  up  the  perfume  sweet 
Of  every  roses  buttoning  there. 


It  only  want  my  charming  miss 

Who  make  to  blush  the  self  red  rose ; 

Oh  !   I  have  envy  of  to  kiss 

The  end's  tip  of  her  splendid  nose. 

Oh  !   I  have  envy  of  to  be 

What  grass  'neath  her  pantoffle  push, 
And  too  much  happy  seemeth  me 

The  margaret  which  her  vestige  crush. 

But  I  will  meet  her  nose  at  nose, 
And  take  occasion  for  her  hairs, 

And  indicate  her  all  my  woes, 

That  she  in  fine  agree  my  prayers. 

THE  ENVOY 

I  don't  know  any  greatest  treat 

As  sit  him  in  a  gay  parterre, 
With  Madame  who  is  too  more  sweet 

Than  every  roses  buttoning  there. 

E.  H.  Palme' 
[56] 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 


TO    MOLLIDUSTA 

WHEN  gooseberries  grow  on  the   stem  of  ? 
daisy, 
And  plum-puddings  roll  on  the  tide  to 

the  shore, 

And  julep  is  made  from  the  curls  of  a  jazey, 
Oh,  then,  Mollidusta,  I  '11  love  thee  no  more. 

When  steamboats  no  more  on  the  Thames  shall 

be  going, 
And  a  cast-iron  bridge  reach  Vauxhall  from  the 

Nore, 
And  the  Grand  Junction   waterworks  cease  to  b" 

flowing, 
Oh,  then,  Mollidusta,  I  '11  love  thee  no  more. 

Plancb'e. 


JOHN    JONES 

At  the  Piano 


LOVE  me  and  leave  me  ;  what  love  bids  re- 
trieve me  ?  can  June's  fist  grasp  May  ? 
Leave   me  and   love   me ;  hopes   eyed   once 
above  me  like  spring's  sprouts,  decay  ; 
Fall  as  the  snow  falls,  when   summer  leaves  grow 
false  —  cards  packed  for  storm's  play  ! 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


ii 

Nay,  say  Decay's  self  be  but  last  May's  elf,  wing 

shifted,  eye  sheathed  — 
Changeling  in  April's  crib  rocked,  who  lets  'scape 

rills  locked  fast  since  frost  breathed  — 
Skin   cast   (think  !  )  adder-like,  now  bloom  bursts 

bladder-like,  —  bloom  frost  bequeathed  ? 

in 

Ah,  how  can  fear  sit  and  hear  as  love  hears  it 
grief's  heart's  cracked  grate's  screech  ? 

Chance  lets  the  gate  sway  that  opens  on  hate's  way 
and  shews  on  shame's  beach 

Crouched  like  an  imp  sly  change  watch  sv~et  love's 
shrimps  lie,  a  toothful  in  each. 

IV 

Time  feels  his  tooth  slip  on  husks  wet  from  Truth's 
lip,  which  drops  them  and  grins  — 

Shells  where  no  throb  stirs  of  life  left  in  lobsters 
since  joy  thrilled  their  fins  — 

Hues  of  the  pawn's  tail  or  comb  that  makes  dawn 
stale,  so  red  for  our  sins  ! 


Leaves  love   last  year  smelt  now  feel  dead  love's 
tears  melt —  flies  caught  in  time's  mesh  ! 

Salt  are  the  dews  in  which  new  time  breeds  new 
sin,  brews  blood  and  stews  flesh  ; 

Next  year  may  see   dead    more  germs   than    this 
weeded  and  reared  them  afresh. 
[58] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


VI 

Old   times  left  perish,  new  time  to  cherish  ;    lite 

just  shifts  its  tune  ; 
As,  when  the  day  dies,  half  afraid,  eyes  the  growth 

of  the  moon  ; 
Love    me    and    save  me,  take  me  or  waive  me; 

death  takes  one  so  soon  ! 

A.  C.  Swinburne. 


THE  OWL  AND   THE  PUSSY  CAT 


THE  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat  went  to  sea 
In  a  beautiful  pea-green  boat : 
They  took  some  honey,  and  plenty  of  money 
Wrapped  up  in  a  five-pound  note. 
The  Owl  looked  up  to  the  stars  above, 

And  sang  to  a  small  guitar, 
"Oh,  lovely  Pussy,  oh,  Pussy,  my  love, 
What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are, 
You  are, 
You  are ! 
What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are  !  " 

Pussy  said  to  the  Owl,  "  You  elegant  fowl, 

How  charmingly  sweet  you  sing  ! 
Oh,  let  us  be  married  ;  too  long  we  have  tarried : 

But  what  shall  we  do  for  a  ring  ?  " 
[59] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

They  sailed  away  for  a  year  and  a  day, 

To  the  land  where  the  bong-tree  grows ; 
And  there  in  the  wood  a  Piggy-wig  stood, 
With  a  ring  at  the  end  of  his  nose, 
His  nose, 
His  nose, 
With  a  ring  at  the  end  of  his  nose. 

"  Dear  Pig,  are  you  willing  to  sell  for  one  shilling 

Your  ring  ?  "     Said  the  Piggy,  "  I  will." 
So  they  took  it  away  and  were  married  next  day 

By  the  Turkey  who  lives  on  the  hill. 
They  dined  on  mince  and  slices  of  quince, 

Which  they  ate  with  a  runcible  spoon  ; 
And  hand  in  hand,  on  the  edge  of  the  sand, 

They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
The  moon, 
The  moon, 

They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

Edward  Lear, 


A   BALLADE  OF   THE   NURSERIE 


SHE  hid  herself  in  the  soiree  kettle 
Out  of  her  Ma's  way,  wise,  wee  maid ! 
Wan  was  her  lip  as  the  lily's  petal, 
Sad  was  the  smile  that  over  it  played. 
[6oj 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Why  doth  she  warble  not  ?  Is  she  afraid 
Of  the  hound  that  howls,  or  the  moaning  mole  ? 

Can  it  be  on  an  errand  she  hath  delayed  ? 
Hush  thee,  hush  thee,  dear  little  soul ! 

The  nightingale  sings  to  the  nodding  nettle 

In  the  gloom  o'  the  gloaming  athwart  the  glade : 
The  zephyr  sighs  soft  on  Popocatapetl, 

And  Auster  is  taking  it  cool  in  the  shade : 

Sing,  hey,  for  a  gutta  serenade  ! 
Not  mine  to  stir  up  a  storied  pole, 

No  noses  snip  with  a  bluggy  blade  — 
Hush  thee,  hush  thee,  dear  little  soul  ! 

Shall  I  bribe  with  a  store  of  minted  metal  ? 

With  Everton  toffee  thee  persuade  ? 
That  thou  in  a  kettle  thyself  shouldst  settle, 

When  grandly  and  gaudily  all  arrayed  ! 

Thy  flounces  'ill  foul  and  fangles  fade. 
Come  out,  and  Algernon  Charles  'ill  roll 

Thee  safe  and  snug  in  Plutonian  plaid  — 
Hush  thee,  hush  thee,  dear  little  soul !  , 

ENVOI 

When  nap  is  none  and  raiment  frayed, 
And  winter  crowns  the  puddered  poll, 

A  kettle  sings  ane  soote  ballade  — 
Hush  thee,  hush  thee,  dear  little  soul. 

John  Ttvig. 

[61] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


AH  Night !  blind  germ  of  days  to  be, 
Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 
(Sweet  Venus,  mother!) 
What  wail  of  smitten  strings  hear  we  ? 
(Ah  me  !   ah  me  ! 

Hey  diddle  dee  /) 

Ravished  by  clouds  our  Lady  Moon, 

Ah  me  !   ah  me  ! 

(Sweet  Venus,  mother  !) 
Sinks  swooning  in  a  lady-swoon 

(Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 

Dum  diddle  dee  /) 

What  profits  it  to  rise  i'  the  dark  ? 

Ah  me  !   ah  me  ! 

(Sweet  Venus,  mother !) 
If  love  but  over-soar  its  mark 

(Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 

Hey  diddle  dee  /) 

What  boots  to  fall  again  forlorn  ? 
Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 
(Sweet  Venus,  mother  !) 
Scorned  by  the  grinning  hound  of  scorn, 
(Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 

Dum  diddle  dee  /) 
[62] 


A    Nonsense    Anthology 

Art  thou  not  greater  who  art  less  ? 
Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 
(Sweet  Venus,  mother  !) 
Low  love  fulfilled  of  low  success  ? 
(Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 

Hey  diddle  dee  /) 

Anonymous. 

THE   LUGUBRIOUS   WHING- 
WHANG  * 

OUT  on  the  margin  of  moonshine  land, 
Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs, 
Out  where  the  whing-whang  loves  to  stand, 
Writing  his  name  with  his  tail  on  the  sand, 
And  wiping  it  out  with  his  oogerish  hand  ; 
Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs. 

Is  it  the  gibber  of  gungs  and  keeks  ? 

Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs, 
Or  what  is  the  sound  the  whing-whang  seeks, 
Crouching  low  by  the  winding  creeks, 
And  holding  his  breath  for  weeks  and  weeks  ? 

Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs. 

Aroint  him  the  wraithest  of  wraithly  things  ! 

Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs, 
'T  is  a  fair  whing-whangess  with  phosphor  rings, 
And  bridal  jewels  of  fangs  and  stings, 

*  By  permission  of  the  author;   from  "Rhymes  of  Childhood,' 
copyright,  1890,  1898. 

[63] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  she  sits  and  as  sadly  and  softly  sings 

As  the  mildewed  whir  of  her  own  dead  wings; 

Tickle  me,  dear;  tickle  me  here; 

Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs. 

James  Wbitcomb  Riley. 


OH!   WEARY  MOTHER 

r  I  "\HE  lilies  lie  in  my  lady's  bower, 

(Oh  !  weary   mother,  drive   the  cows  to 

roost ;) 

They  faintly  droop  for  a  little  hour ; 
My  lady's  head  droops  like  a  flower. 

She  took  the  porcelain  in  her  hand, 

(Oh  !   weary  mother,  drive  the  cows  to  roost ;) 
She  poured  ;   I  drank  at  her  command  ; 
Drank  deep,  and  now  —  you  understand! 

(Oh  !   weary  mother,  drive  the  cows  to  roost.) 

Barry  Pain, 

SWISS  AIR* 

I'M  a  gay  tra,  la,  la, 
With  my  fal,  lal,  la,  la, 
And  my  bright  — 
And  my  light  — 

Tra,  la,  le.  [Repeat.] 

*  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  authorized  publishers 
of  Bret  Harte's  works. 

[64] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Then  laugh,  ha,  ha,  ha, 
And  ring,  ting,  ling,  ling, 
And  sing,  fal,  la,  la, 

La,  la,  Ic.  {Repeat^ 

Bret  Harte. 


THE   BULBUL* 

THE  bulbul  hummeth  like  a  book 
Upon  the  pooh-pooh  tree, 
And  now  and  then  he  takes  a  look 
At  you  and  me, 
At  me  and  you. 
Kuchi! 
Kuchoo ! 

Owen  Seaman. 

BALLAD 

With  an  Ancient  Refrain 

OSTOODENT  A  has  gone  and  spent, 
With  a  hey-lililu  and  a  how-low-lan 
All  his  money  to  a  Cent, 
And  the  birk  and  the  broom  blooms  bonny. 

His  Creditors  he  could  not  pay, 

With  a  hey-lililu  and  a  how-low-lan, 

And  Prison  proved  a  shock  to  A, 

And  the  birk  and  the  broom  blooms  bonny. 

Anonymous. 
*  By  permission  of  John  Lane  ;  from  "The  Battle  of  the  Bays." 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


OH,  my  Geraldine, 
No  flow'r  was  ever  seen  so  toodle  um. 
You  are  my  lum  ti  toodle  lay, 

Pretty,  pretty  queen, 
Is  rum  ti  Geraldine  and  something  teen, 
More  sweet  than  tiddle  lum  in  May 
Like  the  star  so  bright 
That  somethings  all  the  night, 

My  Geraldine  ! 

You're  fair  as  the  rum  ti  lum  ti  sheen, 
Hark  !  there  is  what  —  ho  ! 
From  something  —  um,  you  know, 

Dear,  what  I  mean. 
Oh  !   rum  !   turn  ! !  turn  ! !  !   my  Geraldine. 

F.   C.  Burn  and. 


BUZ,    QUOTH   THE   BLUE   FLY 

BUZ,  quoth  the  blue  fly, 
Hum,  quoth  the  bee, 
Buz  and  hum  they  cry, 

And  so  do  we  : 

In  his  ear,  in  his  nose,  thus,  do  you  see  ? 
He  ate  the  dormouse,  else  it  was  he. 

Ben  Jonscn 

in  <(  The  Masque  of  Oberon. 

[66] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


A  SONG   ON   KING   WILLIAM   III 

AS  I  walked  by  myself, 
And  talked  to  myself, 
Myself  said  unto  me, 
Look  to  thyself, 
Take  care  of  thyself, 

For  nobody  cares  for  thee. 

I  answered  myself, 
And  said  to  myself, 

In  the  self-same  repartee, 
Look  to  thyself, 
Or  not  look  to  thyself, 

The  selfsame  thing  will  be. 

Anonymous. 


THERE   WAS   A   MONKEY 


was  a  monkey  climbed  up  a  tree, 
When  he  fell  down,  then  down  fell  he. 

There  was  a  crow  sat  on  a  stone, 
When  he  was  gone,  then  there  was  none. 

There  was  an  old  wife  did  eat  an  apple., 
When  she  had  eat  two,  she  had  eat  a  couple. 

[67] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

There  was  a  horse  going  to  the  mill, 
When  he  went  on,  he  stood  not  still. 

There  was  a  butcher  cut  his  thumb, 
When  it  did  bleed,  then  blood  did  come. 

There  was  a  lackey  ran  a  race, 
When  he  ran  fast,  he  ran  apace. 

There  was  a  cobbler  clouting  shoon, 
When  they  were  mended,  they  were  done. 

There  was  a  chandler  making  candle, 
When  he  them  strip,  he  did  them  handle. 

There  was  a  navy  went  into  Spain, 
When  it  returned,  it  came  again. 

Anonymous,  1626. 


THE  GUINEA    PIG 

THERE  was  a  little  Guinea-pig, 
Who,  being  little,  was  not  big  ; 
He  always  walked  upon  his  feet, 
And  never  fasted  when  he  eat. 

When  from  a  place  he  ran  away, 
He  never  at  that  place  did  stay ; 
And  while  he  ran,  as  I  am  told, 
He  ne'er  stood  still  for  young  or  old. 
[68] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

He  often  squeaked,  and  sometimes  vi'lent, 
And  when  he  squeaked  he  ne'er  was  silent : 
Though  ne'er  instructed  by  a  cat, 
He  knew  a  mouse  was  not  a  rat. 

One  day,  as  I  am  certified, 
He  took  a  whim,  and  fairly  died  ; 
And  as  I  'm  told  by  men  of  sense, 
He  never  has  been  living  since  ! 

Anonymous. 


THREE    CHILDREN 

THREE  children  sliding  on  the  ice 
Upon  a  summer's  day, 
As  it  fell  out  they  all  fell  in, 
The  rest  they  ran  away. 

Now,  had  these  children  been  at  home, 

Or  sliding  on  dry  ground, 
Ten  thousand  pounds  to  one  penny 

They  had  not  all  been  drowned. 

You  parents  all  that  children  have, 

And  you  too  that  have  none, 
If  you  would  have  them  safe  abroad 
Pray  keep  them  safe  at  home. 

London,  1662 
[69] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


IF 


IF  all  the  land  were  apple-pie, 
And  all  the  sea  were  ink ; 
And  all  the  trees  were  bread  and  cheese, 
What  should  we  do  for  drink  ? 

Anonymous. 


A   RIDDLE 

r  1  ^HE  man  in  the  wilderness  asked  of  me 
How  many  strawberries  grew  in  the  sea. 
I  answered  him  as  1  thought  good, 

As  many  as  red  herrings  grow  in  the  wood. 

Anonymous. 


THREE  JOVIAL   HUNTSMEN 

THERE  were  three  jovial  huntsmen, 
As  I  have  heard  them  say, 
And  they  would  go  a-hunting 
All  on  a  summer's  day. 

All  the  day  they  hunted, 

And  nothing  could  they  find 
But  a  ship  a-sailing, 

A-sailing  with  the  wind. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

One  said  it  was  a  ship, 

The  other  said  Nay  ; 
The  third  said  it  was  a  house 

With  the  chimney  blown  away. 

And  all  the  night  they  hunted, 
And  nothing  could  they  find  ; 

But  the  moon  a-gliding, 
A-gliding  with  the  wind. 

One  said  it  was  the  moon, 

The  other  said  Nay  ; 
The  third  said  it  was  a  cheese, 

And  half  o't  cut  away. 

Anonymous. 


THREE    ACRES    OF    LAND 


MY  father  left  me  three  acres  of  land, 
Sing  ivy,  sing  ivy  ; 
My  father  left  me  three  acres  of  land, 
Sing  holly,  go  whistle,  and  ivy ! 

I  ploughed  it  with  a  ram's  horn, 

Sing  ivy,  sing  ivy  ; 
And  sowed  it  all  over  with  one  peppercorn. 

Sing  holly,  go  whistle,  and  ivy  ! 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

I  harrowed  it  with  a  bramble  bush, 

Sing  ivy,  sing  ivy  ; 
And  reaped  it  with  my  little  penknife, 

Sing  holly,  go  whistle,  and  ivy  ! 

I  got  the  mice  to  carry  it  to  the  barn, 

Sing  ivy,  sing  ivy  ; 
And  thrashed  it  with  a  goose's  quill, 

Sing  holly,  go  whistle,  and  ivy  ! 

I  got  the  cat  to  carry  it  to  the  mill, 

Sing  ivy,  sing  ivy ; 

The  miller  he  swore  he  would  have  her  paw, 
And  the  cat  she  swore  she  would  scratch  his  face, 

Sing  holly,  go  whistle,  and  ivy  ! 

Anonymous. 


MASTER   AND  MAN 


ASTER  I  have,  and  I  am  his  man, 

Gallop  a  dreary  dun  ; 
Master  I  have,  and  1  am  his  man, 
And  I  '11  get  a  wife  as  fast  as  I  can  ; 
With  a  heighly  gaily  gamberally, 

Higgledy  piggledy,  niggledy,  niggledy, 
Gallop  a  dreary  dun. 

Anonymous, 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


HYDER   IDDLE 

HYDER  iddlc  diddle  dell, 
A  yard  of  pudding  is  not  an  ell ; 
Not  forgetting  tweedle-dye, 
A  tailor's  goose  will  never  fly. 

Anonymous. 


KING  ARTHUR 


WHEN  good  King  Arthur  ruled  the  land, 
He  was  a  goodly  king  : 
He  stole  three  pecks  of  barley  meal, 
To  make  a  bag-pudding. 

A  bag-pudding  the  king  did  make, 
And  stuffed  it  well  with  plums  ; 

And  in  it  put  great  lumps  of  fat, 
As  big  as  my  two  thumbs. 

The  king  and  queen  did  eat  thereof, 

And  noblemen  beside ; 
And  what  they  could  not  eat  that  night, 

The  queen  next  morning  fried. 

Anonymous, 
[73] 


A    Nonsense    Anthology 


IN   THE   DUMPS 

WE  're  all  in  the  dumps, 
For  diamonds  are  trumps  ; 
The  kittens  are  gone  to  St.  Paul's  ! 
The  babies  are  bit, 
The  moon  's  in  a  fit, 
And  the  houses  are  built  without  walls. 

Anonymous. 

TWEEDLE-DUM   AND 
TWEEDLE-DEE 

rTAWEEDLE-DUM  and  Tweedle-dee 

Resolved  to  have  a  battle, 
For  Tweedle-dum  said  Tweedle-dee 
Had  spoiled  his  nice  new  rattle. 
Just  then  flew  by  a  monstrous  crow, 

As  big  as  a  tar-barrel, 
Which  frightened  both  the  heroes  so 
They  quite  forgot  their  quarrel. 

Anonymous. 

MARTIN  TO    HIS  MAN 

ARTIN  said  to  his  man, 

Fie  !   man,  fie  ! 
Oh,  Martin  said  to  his  man, 

Who's  the  fool  now  ? 
Martin  said  to  his  man, 
[74] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Fill  thou  the  cup,  and  I  the  can  ; 
Thou  hast  well  drunken,  man  : 
Who  's  the  fool  now  ? 


I  see  a  sheep  shearing  corn, 

Fie  !   man,  fie  ! 
I  see  a  sheep  shearing  corn, 

Who  's  the  fool  now  ? 
I  see  a  sheep  shearing  corn, 
And  a  cuckoo  blow  his  horn  ; 
Thou  hast  well  drunken,  man 

Who  's  the  fool  now  ? 


I  see  a  man  in  the  moon, 

Fie  !   man,  fie  ! 
I  see  a  man  in  the  moon, 

Who  's  the  fool  now  ? 
I  see  a  man  in  the  moon, 
Clouting  of  St.  Peter's  shoon, 
Thou  hast  well  drunken,  man  : 

Who  's  the  fool  now  ? 


I  see  a  hare  chase  a  hound, 

Fie  !   man,  fie  ! 
I  see  a  hare  chase  a  hound, 

Who  's  the  fool  now  ? 
I  see  a  hare  chase  a  hound, 
Twenty  mile  above  the  ground  ; 
Thou  hast  well  drunken,  man : 

Who  's  the  fool  now  ? 
[75] 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 

I  sec  a  goose  ring  a  hog, 

Fie  !   man,  fie  ! 
I  see  a  goose  ring  a  hog, 

Who  's  the  fool  now  ? 
I  see  a  goose  ring  a  hog, 
And  a  snail  that  bit  a  dog; 
Thou  hast  well  drunken,  man  : 

Who  's  the  fool  now  ? 

I  see  a  mouse  catch  the  cat, 

Fie  !  man,  fie  ! 
I  see  a  mouse  catch  the  cat, 

Who  's  the  fool  now  ? 
I  see  a  mouse  catch  the  cat, 
And  the  cheese  to  eat  the  rat  ; 
Thou  hast  well  drunken,  man  : 

Who 's  the  fool  now  ? 

From  Deuteromelia 

printed  in  the  reign  of  James  I. 


THE   YONGHY-BONGHY-BO 


ON  the  Coast  of  Coromandel 
Where  the  early  pumpkins  blow, 
In  the  middle  of  the  woods 
Lived  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 
Two  old  chairs,  and  half  a  candle, 
One  old  jug  without  a  handle,  — 
[76] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

These  were  all  his  worldly  goods  : 
In  the  middle  of  the  woods, 
These  were  all  the  worldly  goods 
Of  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, 
Of  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 

ii 

Once,  among  the  Bong-trees  walking 
Where  the  early  pumpkins  blow, 

To  a  little  heap  of  stones 
Came  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 
There  he  heard  a  Lady  talking, 
To  some  milk-white  Hens  of  Dorking, 
"  'T  is  the  Lady  Jingly  Jones  ! 
On  that  little  heap  of  stones 
Sits  the  Lady  Jingly  Jones  !  " 
Said  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, 
Said  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 


in 


"  Lady  Jingly  !  Lady  Jingly  ! 

Sitting  where  the  pumpkins  blow, 

Will  you  come  and  be  my  wife  ? 
Said  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, 
"  I  am  tired  of  living  singly,  — 
On  this  coast  so  wild  and  shingly, — 
I  'm  a-weary  of  my  life  ; 
If  you'll  come  and  be  my  wife, 
Quite  serene  would  be  my  life!  " 
Said  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, 
Said  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 
[77] 


A   Nonsense    Anthology 


IV 

"  On  this  Coast  of  Coromandel 
Shrimps  and  watercresses  grow, 

Prawns  are  plentiful  and  cheap," 
Said  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 
"  You  shall  have  my  chairs  and  candle, 
And  my  jug  without  a  handle! 
Gaze  upon  the  rolling  deep 
(Fish  is  plentiful  and  cheap  ): 
As  the  sea,  my  love  is  deep  ! " 
Said  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, 
Said  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 


Lady  Jingly  answered  sadly, 

And  her  tears  began  to  flow,  — 

"  Your  proposal  comes  too  late, 
Mr.  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! 
I  would  be  your  wife  most  gladly  !  " 
(Here  she  twirled  her  fingers  madly,) 
"  But  in  England  I  've  a  mate  ! 
Yes  !  you  've  asked  me  far  too  late, 
P'or  in  England  I  Ve  a  mate, 
Mr.  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo  ! 
Mr.  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo  ! 

VI 

"  Mr.  Jones  (his  name  is  Handel,  — 
Handel  Jones,  Esquire  &  Co.) 

Dorking  fowls  delights  to  send, 
Mr.  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo  ! 
[78] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Keep,  oh,  keep  your  chairs  and  candle, 
And  your  jug  without  a  handle, — 
I  can  merely  be  your  friend  ! 
Should  my  Jones  more  Dorkings  send, 
I  will  give  you  three,  my  friend  ! 
Mr.  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo  ! 
Mr.  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo ! 

VII 

"  Though  you  Ve  such  a  tiny  body, 
And  your  head  so  large  doth  grow, — 
Though  your  hat  may  blow  away, 
Mr.  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo  ! 
Though  you  're  such  a  Hoddy  Doddy, 
Yet  I  wish  that  I  could  modi- 
fy the  words  I  needs  must  say  ! 
Will  you  please  to  go  away  ? 
That  is  all  I  have  to  say, 
Mr.  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo  ! 
Mr.  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo  ! " 

VIII 

Down  the  slippery  slopes  of  Myrtle, 
Where  the  early  pumpkins  blow, 

To  the  calm  and  silent  sea 
Fled  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 
There,  beyond  the  Bay  of  Gurtle, 
Lay  a  large  and  lively  Turtle. 

"  You  're  the  Cove,"  he  said, "  for  me  : 
On  your  back  beyond  the  sea, 
Turtle,  you  shall  carry  me !  " 
[79] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Said  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, 
Said  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 


IX 

Through  the  silent  roaring  ocean 
Did  the  Turtle  swiftly  go  ; 

Holding  fast  upon  his  shell 
Rode  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 
With  a  sad  primaeval  motion 
Toward  the  sunset  isles  of  Boshen 
Still  the  Turtle  bore  him  well, 
Holding  fast  upon  his  shell. 
"  Lady  Jingly  Jones,  farewell  !  " 
Sang  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, 
Sang  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 


From  the  Coast  of  Coromandel 
Did  that  Lady  never  go, 

On  that  heap  of  stones  she  mourns 
For  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 
On  that  Coast  of  Coromandel, 
In  his  jug  without  a  handle 

Still  she  weeps,  and  daily  moans  ; 
On  the  little  heap  of  stones 
To  her  Dorking  Hens  she  moans, 
For  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, 
For  the  Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 

Edward  Lear. 
[80] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THE  POBBLE  WHO  HAS  NO  TOES 

THE  Pobble  who  has  no  toes 
Had  once  as  many  as  we ; 
When  they  said,  "  Some  day  you  may  lose 

them  all," 

He  replied,  u  Fish  fiddle  de-dee  ! " 
And  his  Aunt  Jobiska  made  him  drink 
Lavender  water  tinged  with  pink ; 
For  she  said,  "  The  World  in  general  knows 
There  's  nothing  so  good  for  a  Pebble's  toes !  " 

The  Pobble  who  has  no  toes 

Swam  across  the  Bristol  Channel ; 
But  before  he  set  out  he  wrapped  his  nose 

In  a  piece  of  scarlet  flannel. 
For  his  Aunt  Jobiska  said,  "  No  harm 
Can  come  to  his  toes  if  his  nose  is  warm  ; 
And  it's  perfectly  known  that  a  Pobble's  toes 
Are  safe  —  provided  he  minds  his  nose." 

The  Pobble  swam  fast  and  well, 

And  when  boats  or  ships  came  near  him, 
He  tinkledy-binkledy-winkled  a  bell 

So  that  all  the  world  could  hear  him. 
And  all  the  Sailors  and  Admirals  cried, 
When  they  saw  him  nearing  the  farther  side, 
"  He  has  gone  to  fish  for  his  Aunt  Jobiska's 
Runcible  Cat  with  crimson  whiskers  !  " 
[6]  [  8i  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology^ 

But  before  he  touched  the  shore  — 

The  shore  of  the  Bristol  Channel, 
A  sea-green  Porpoise  carried  away 

His  wrapper  of  scarlet  flannel. 
And  when  he  came  to  observe  his  feet, 
Formerly  garnished  with  toes  so  neat, 
His  face  at  once  became  forlorn 
On  perceiving  that  all  his  toes  were  gone  ! 

And  nobody  ever  knew, 

From  that  dark  day  to  the  present, 
Whoso  had  taken  the  Pebble's  toes, 

In  a  manner  so  far  from  pleasant. 
Whether  the  shrimps  or  crawfish  gray, 
Or  crafty  mermaids  stole  them  away, 
Nobody  knew  ;   and  nobody  knows 
How  the  Pobble  was  robbed  of  his  twice  five  toes  ! 

The  Pobble  who  has  no  toes 

Was  placed  in  a  friendly  Bark, 
And  they  rowed  him  back  and  carried  him  up 

To  his  Aunt  Jobiska's  Park. 
And  she  made  him  a  feast  at  his  earnest  wish, 
Of  eggs  and  buttercups  fried  with  fish ; 
And  she  said,  "  It 's  a  fact  the  whole  world  knows, 
That  Pobbles  are  happier  without  their  toes." 

Edward  Lear, 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THE  JUMBLIES 


f  I  ^HEY  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve,  they  did ; 

In  a  sieve  they  went  to  sea : 
In  spite  of  all  their  friends  could  say, 
On  a  winter's  morn,  on  a  stormy  day, 

In  a  sieve  they  went  to  sea. 
And  when  the  sieve  turned  round  and  round, 
And  every  one  cried,  "  You  '11  all  be  drowned  !  " 
They  called  aloud,  "  Our  sieve  ain't  big  ; 
But  we  don't  care  a  button,  we  don't  care  a  fig  : 
In  a  sieve  we  '11  go  to  sea  !  " 
Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the  lands  where  the  Jumblies  live; 
Their   heads   are  green   and  their  hands  are 

blue  ; 
And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 

ii 

They  sailed  away  in  a  sieve,  they  did, 

In  a  sieve  they  sailed  so  fast, 
With  only  a  beautiful  pea-green  veil 
Tied  with  a  ribbon  by  way  of  a  sail, 

To  a  small  tobacco-pipe  mast. 
And  ever)'  one  said  who  saw  them  go, 
"  Oh  !  won't  they  soon  be  upset,  you  know  ? 
For  the  sky  is  dark  and  the  voyage  is  long, 
And,  happen  what  may,  it 's  extremely  wrong 

In  a  sieve  to  sail  so  fast." 
[83] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the  lands  where  the  Jumblies  live  ; 
Their  heads  are    green   and  their  hands  are 
blue  ; 

And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 

in 

The  water  it  soon  came  in,  it  did ; 

The  water  it  soon  came  in  : 
So,  to  keep  them  dry,  they  wrapped  their  feet 
In  a  pinky  paper  all  folded  neat ; 

And  they  fastened  it  down  with  a  pin. 
And  they  passed  the  night  in  a  crockery-jar ; 
And  each  of  them  said,  "  How  wise  we  are! 
Though  the  sky  be  dark,  and  the  voyage  be  long, 
Yet  we  never  can  think  we  were  rash  or  wrong, 
While  round  in  our  sieve  we  spin." 
Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the  lands  where  the  Jumblies  live; 
Their  heads   are   green  and  their  hands  are 

blue; 
And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 

IV 

And  all  night  long  they  sailed  away ; 

And  when  the  sun  went  down, 
They  whistled  and  warbled  a  moony  song 
To  the  echoing  sound  of  a  coppery  gong, 

In  the  shade  of  the  mountains  brown. 
"  O  Timballoo  !      How  happy  we  are 
When  we  live  in  a  sieve  and  a  crockery-jar ! 
[84] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  all  night  long,  in  the  moonlight  pale, 
We  sail  away  with  a  pea-green  sail 

In  the  shade  of  the  mountains  brown." 
Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the  lands  where  the  Jumblies  live ; 
Their  heads  are  green,  and  their  hands  are 

blue  ; 
And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 


They  sailed  to  the  Western  Sea,  they  did,  — 

To  a  land  all  covered  with  trees  ; 
And  they  bought  an  owl  and  a  useful  cart, 
And  a  pound  of  rice,  and  a  cranberry-tart, 

And  a  hive  of  silvery  bees  ; 

And  they  bought  a  pig,  and  some  green  jackdaws, 
And  a  lovely  monkey  with  lollipop  paws, 
And  forty  bottles  of  ring-bo-ree, 
And  no  end  of  Stilton  cheese. 
Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the  lands  where  the  Jumblies  live  ; 
Their  heads  are  green,  and  their  hands  are 

blue ; 
And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 

VI 

And  in  twenty  years  they  all  came  back,  — 

In  twenty  years  or  more ; 

And  every  one  said,  "  How  tall  they  've  grown  ! 
For  they  've  been  to  the  Lakes,  and  the  Terrible 

Zone, 

And  the  hills  of  the  Chankly  Bore." 
[85] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  they  drank  their  health,  and  gave  them  a  feasf 
Of  dumplings  made  of  beautiful  yeast ; 
And  every  one  said,  "  If  we  only  live, 
We,  too,  will  go  to  sea  in  a  sieve, 
To  the  hills  of  the  Chankly  Bore." 
Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the  lands  where  the  Jumblies  live ; 
Their  heads  are  green,  and  their  hands  are 

blue ; 
And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 

Edward  Lear. 


INCIDENTS   IN  THE   LIFE  OF 
MY  UNCLE   ARLY 


OH  !   my  aged  Uncle  Arly, 
Sitting  on  a  heap  of  barley 
Through  the  silent  hours  of  night, 
Close  beside  a  leafy  thicket ; 
On  his  nose  there  was  a  cricket, 
In  his  hat  a  Railway-Ticket, 

(But  his  shoes  were  far  too  tight.) 

ii 

Long  ago,  in  youth,  he  squander'd 
All  his  goods  away,  and  wander'd 
To  the  Timskoop-hills  afar. 

[86] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

There  on  golden  sunsets  glazing 
Every  evening  found  him  gazing, 
Singing,  "  Orb  !   you  're  quite  amazing  ! 
How  I  wonder  what  you  are  !  " 

in 

Like  the  ancient  Medes  and  Persians, 
Always  by  his  own  exertions 

He  subsisted  on  those  hills ; 
Whiles,  by  teaching  children  spelling, 
Or  at  times  by  merely  yelling, 
Or  at  intervals  by  selling 

"  Propter's  Nicodemus  Pills." 

IV 

Later,  in  his  morning  rambles, 
He  perceived  the  moving  brambles 

Something  square  and  white  disclose  : 
'T  was  a  First-class  Railway-Ticket  -, 
But  on  stooping  down  to  pick  it 
Off  the  ground,  a  pea-green  cricket 

Settled  on  my  uncle's  nose. 


Never,  nevermore,  oh  !  never 
Did  that  cricket  leave  him  ever, — 

Dawn  or  evening,  day  or  night ; 
Clinging  as  a  constant  treasure, 
Chirping  with  a  cheerious  measure, 
Wholly  to  my  uncle's  pleasure, 

(Though  his  shoes  were  far  too  tight.) 
[87] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


VI 

So  for  three  and  forty  winters, 

Till  his  shoes  were  worn  to  splinters 

All  those  hills  he  wander'd  o'er,  — 
Sometimes  silent,  sometimes  yelling  ; 
Till  he  came  to  Borley-Melling, 
Near  his  old  ancestral  dwelling, 

(But  his  shoes  were  far  too  tight.) 

VII 

On  a  little  heap  of  barley 
Died  my  aged  Uncle  Arly, 

And  they  buried  him  one  night 
Close  beside  the  leafy  thicket ; 
There,  his  hat  and  Railway-Ticket  ; 
There,  his  ever  faithful  cricket ; 

(But  his  shoes  were  far  too  tight.) 

Ed-ward  Lear-. 


LINES   TO   A   YOUNG   LADY 


H 


OW  pleasant  to  know  Mr.  Lear !  " 

Who  has  written  such  volumes  of  stuff! 
Some  think  him  ill-tempered  and  queer, 
But  a  few  think  him  pleasant  enough. 


His  mind  is  concrete  and  fastidious, 
His  nose  is  remarkably  big; 

His  visage  is  more  or  less  hideous, 
His  beard  it  resembles  a  wig. 
[88] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

He  has  ears,  and  two  eyes,  and  ten  fingers, 
Leastways  if  you  reckon  two  thumbs; 

Long  ago  he  was  one  of  the  singers, 
But  now  he  is  one  of  the  dumbs. 

He  sits  in  a  beautiful  parlour, 

With  hundreds  of  books  on  the  wall ; 

He  drinks  a  great  deal  of  Marsala, 
But  never  gets  tipsy  at  all. 

He  has  many  friends,  laymen  and  clerical, 
Old  Foss  is  the  name  of  his  cat : 

His  body  is  perfectly  spherical, 
He  weareth  a  runcible  hat. 

When  he  walks  in  a  waterproof  white, 
The  children  run  after  him  so  ! 

Calling  out,  "  He  's  come  out  in  his  night- 
Gown,  that  crazy  old  Englishman,  oh  !  " 

He  weeps  by  the  side  of  the  ocean, 
He  weeps  on  the  top  of  the  hill; 

He  purchases  pancakes  and  lotion, 
And  chocolate  shrimps  from  the  mill. 

He  reads  but  he  cannot  speak  Spanish, 

He  cannot  abide  ginger-beer  : 
Ere  the  days  of  his  pilgrimage  vanish, 

How  pleasant  to  know  Mr.  Lear. 

Edward  Lear. 

[89] 


WAYS   AND   MEANS 


I'LL  tell  thee  everything  I  can ; 
There  's  little  to  relate. 
I  saw  an  aged  aged  man, 
A-sitting  on  a  gate. 
"  Who  are  you,  aged  man  ?  "  I  said, 

"  And  how  is  it  you  live  ?  " 
His  answer  trickled  through  my  head 
Like  water  through  a  sieve. 

He  said,  "  I  look  for  butterflies 

That  sleep  among  the  wheat : 
I  make  them  into  mutton-pies, 

And  sell  them  in  the  street. 
I  sell  them  unto  men,"  he  said, 

u  Who  sail  on  stormy  seas  ; 
And  that 's  the  way  I  get  my  bread  — 

A  trifle,  if  you  please." 

But  I  was  thinking  of  a  plan 

To  dye  one's  whiskers  green, 
And  always  use  so  large  a  fan 

That  they  could  not  be  seen. 
So,  having  no  reply  to  give 

To  what  the  old  man  said, 
I  cried,  "  Come,  tell  me  how  you  live  ! 

And  thumped  him  on  the  head. 
[90] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

His  accents  mild  took  up  the  tale; 

He  said,  "  I  go  my  ways 
And  when  I  find  a  mountain-rill 

I  set  it  in  a  blaze ; 
And  thence  they  make  a  stuff  they  call 

Rowland's  Macassar  Oil  — 
Yet  twopence-halfpenny  is  all 

They  give  me  for  my  toil." 

But  I  was  thinking  of  a  way 

To  feed  oneself  on  batter, 
And  so  go  on  from  day  to  day 

Getting  a  little  fatter. 
I  shook  him  well  from  side  to  side, 

Until  his  face  was  blue  ; 
u  Come,  tell  me  how  you  live,"  I  cried, 

"  And  what  it  is  you  do  !  " 

He  said,  "  I  hunt  for  haddock's  eyes 

Among  the  heather  bright, 
And  work  them  into  waistcoat-buttons 

In  the  silent  night. 
And  these  I  do  not  sell  for  gold 

Or  coin  of  silvery  shine, 
But  for  a  copper  halfpenny 

And  that  will  purchase  nine. 

"  I  sometimes  dig  for  buttered  rolls, 
Or  set  limed  twigs  for  crabs ; 

I  sometimes  search  the  grassy  knolls 
For  wheels  of  Hansom  cabs. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  that  's  the  way  "  (he  gave  a  wink) 
u  By  which  I  get  my  wealth  — 

And  very  gladly  will  I  drink 
Your  Honor's  noble  health." 


I  heard  him  then,  for  I  had  just 

Completed  my  design 
To  keep  the  Menai  Bridge  from  rust 

By  boiling  it  in  wine. 
I  thanked  him  much  for  telling  me 

The  way  he  got  his  wealth, 
But  chiefly  for  his  wish  that  he 

Might  drink  my  noble  health. 


And  now  if  e'er  by  chance  I  put 

My  fingers  into  glue, 
Or  madly  squeeze  a  right-hand  foot 

Into  a  left-hand  shoe, 
Or  if  I  drop  upon  my  toe 

A  very  heavy  weight, 
I  weep,  for  it  reminds  me  so 
Of  that  old  man  I  used  to  know  — 
Whose  look  was  mild,  whose  speech  was  slow, 
Whose  hair  was  whiter  than  the  snow, 
Whose  face  was  very  like  a  crow, 
With  eyes,  like  cinders,  all  aglow, 
Who  seemed  distracted  with  his  woe, 
Who  rocked  his  body  to  and  fro, 
And  muttered  mumblingly,  and  low, 
As  if  his  mouth  were  full  of  dough, 
[9*] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Who  snorted  like  a  buffalo  — 
That  summer  evening,  long  ago, 
A-sitting  on  a  gate. 

Lewis  Carroll. 


THE   WALRUS   AND   THE 
CARPENTER 

THE  sun  was  shining  on  the  sea, 
Shining  with  all  his  might : 
He  did  his  very  best  to  make 
The  billows  smooth  and  bright  — 
And  this  was  odd,  because  it  was 
The  middle  of  the  night. 

The  moon  was  shining  sulkily, 
Because  she  thought  the  sun 

Had  got  no  business  to  be  there 
After  the  day  was  done  — 

"  It's  very  rude  of  him,"  she  said, 
"  To  come  and  spoil  the  fun  !  " 

The  sea  was  wet  as  wet  could  be, 

The  sands  were  dry  as  dry. 
You  could  not  see  a  cloud,  because 

No  cloud  was  in  the  sky  : 
No  birds  were  flying  overhead — 

There  were  no  birds  to  fly. 
[93] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter 

Were  walking  close  at  hand ; 
They  wept  like  anything  to  see 

Such  quantities  of  sand  : 
41  If  this  were  only  cleared  away," 

They  said,  "  it  would  be  grand  !  " 

44  If  seven  maids  with  seven  mops 

Swept  it  for  half  a  year, 
Do  you  suppose,"  the  Walrus  said, 

44  That  they  could  get  it  clear  ?  " 
44 1  doubt  it,"  said  the  Carpenter, 

And  shed  a  bitter  tear. 

44  O  Oysters  come  and  walk  with  us  !  " 

The  Walrus  did  beseech. 
44  A  pleasant  walk,  a  pleasant  talk, 

Along  the  briny  beach : 
We  cannot  do  with  more  than  four, 

To  give  a  hand  to  each." 

The  eldest  Oyster  looked  at  him, 

But  not  a  word  he  said  : 
The  eldest  Oyster  winked  his  eye, 

And  shook  his  heavy  head  — 
Meaning  to  say  he  did  not  choose 

To  leave  the  oyster-bed. 

But  four  young  Oysters  hurried  up, 

All  eager  for  the  treat  : 

Their  coats  were  brushed,  their  faces  washed, 
[94] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Their  shoes  were  clean  and  neat  — 
And  this  was  odd,  because,  you  know, 
They  had  n't  any  feet. 

Four  other  Oysters  followed  them, 

And  yet  another  four  ; 
And  thick  and  fast  they  came  at  last, 

And  more,  and  more,  and  more  — 
All  hopping  through  the  frothy  waves, 

And  scrambling  to  the  shore. 

The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter 

Walked  on  a  mile  or  so, 
And  then  they  rested  on  a  rock 

Conveniently  low  : 
And  all  the  little  Oysters  stood 

And  waited  in  a  row. 

"The  time  has  come,"  the  Walrus  said, 

"  To  talk  of  many  things  : 
Of  shoes  —  and  ships  —  and  sealing-wax 

Of  cabbages  —  and  kings  — 
And  why  the  sea  is  boiling  hot  — 

And  whether  pigs  have  wings." 

"  But  wait  a  bit,"  the  Oysters  cried, 

"  Before  we  have  our  chat ; 
For  some  of  us  are  out  of  breath, 

And  all  of  us  are  fat !  " 
"  No  hurry  !  "  said  the  Carpenter. 

They  thanked  him  much  for  that. 
[95] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  A  loaf  of  bread,"  the  Walrus  said, 
"  Is  what  we  chiefly  need  : 

Pepper  and  vinegar  besides 
Are  very  good  indeed  — 

Now  if  you  're  ready,  Oysters  dear, 
We  can  begin  to  feed." 

"  But  not  on  us  !  "  the  Oysters  cried, 

Turning  a  little  blue. 
"  After  such  kindness  that  would  be 

A  dismal  thing  to  do  !  " 
"  The  night  is  fine,"  the  Walrus  said, 

"  Do  you  admire  the  view  ?  " 

"It  was  so  kind  of  you  to  come  ! 

And  you  are  very  nice  !  " 
The  Carpenter  said  nothing  but 

"  Cut  us  another  slice  : 
I  wish  you  were  not  quite  so  deaf  — 

I  've  had  to  ask  you  twice  !  " 

"  It  seems  a  shame,"  the  Walrus  said, 
"  To  play  them  such  a  trick, 

After  we  've  brought  them  out  so  far, 
And  made  them  trot  so  quick  !  " 

The  Carpenter  said  nothing  but 
"  The  butter  's  spread  too  thick  !  " 

"  I  weep  for  you,"  the  Walrus  said  ; 

"  I  deeply  sympathize." 
With  sobs  and  tears  he  sorted  out 
[96] 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 

Those  of  the  largest  size, 
Holding  his  pocket-handkerchief 
Before  his  streaming  eyes. 

"  O  Oysters,"  said  the  Carpenter, 
"  You  've  had  a  pleasant  run  ! 

Shall  we  be  trotting  home  again  ?  " 
But  answer  came  there  none  — 

And  this  was  scarcely  odd,  because 
They  'd  eaten  every  one. 

Lewis  Carroll. 


THE    HUNTING   OF    THE    SNARK 

WE  have  sailed  many  months,  we  have  sailed 
many  weeks, 
(Four    weeks    to    the    month     you    may 

mark), 

But  never  as  yet  ('t  is  your  Captain  who  speaks) 
Have  we  caught  the  least  glimpse  of  a  Snark  ! 

"  We  have  sailed   many    weeks,   we    have    sailer* 
many  days, 

(Seven  days  to  the  week  I  allow), 
But  a  Snark,  on  the  which  we  might  lovingly  gaze,, 

We  have  never  beheld  until  now  ! 

•'  Come,  listen,  my  men,  while  I  tell  you  again 

The  five  unmistakable  marks 
By  which  you  may  know,  wheresoever  you  go, 

The  warranted  genuine  Snarks. 
[7]  [97] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  Let  us  take  them  in  order.     The  first  is  the  taste, 
Which  is  meagre  and  hollow,  but  crisp  : 

Like  a  coat  that  is  rather  too  tight  in  the  waist, 
With  a  flavour  of  Will-o-the-wisp. 

"  Its  habit  of  getting  up  late  you  '11  agree 

That  it  carries  too  far,  when  I  say 
That  it  frequently  breakfasts  at  five-o'clock  tea, 

And  dines  on  the  following  day. 

"  The  third  is  its  slowness  in  taking  a  jest. 

Should  you  happen  to  venture  on  one, 
It  will  sigh  like  a  thing  that  is  greatly  distressed  • 

And  it  always  looks  grave  at  a  pun. 

"The  fourth  is  its  fondness  for  bathing-machines, 

Which  it  constantly  carries  about, 
And  believes  that  they  add  to  the  beauty  of  scenes  — 

A  sentiment  open  to  doubt. 

"The  fifth  is  ambition.      It  next  will  be  right 

To  describe  each  particular  batch  ; 
Distinguishing  those  that  have  feathers,  and  bite, 

From  those  that  have  whiskers,  and  scratch. 

"  For,  although   common  Snarks  do  no  manner  of 

harm, 

Yet  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  say 
Some  are   Boojums  —  "      The  Bellman  broke  off 

in  alarm, 

For  the  Baker  had  fainted  away. 
[98] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

They  roused  him  with  muffins  —  they  roused  him 
with  ice  — 

They  roused  him  with  mustard  and  cress  — 
They  roused  him  with  jam  and  judicious  advice  — 

They  set  him  conundrums  to  guess. 


When  at  length  he  sat  up  and  was  able  to  speak, 

His  sad  story  he  offered  to  tell ; 
And   the  Bellman   cried,  "  Silence  !     Not  even  a 
shriek  !  " 

And  excitedly  tingled  his  bell. 

"My    father    and    mother    were    honest,    though 

poor  —  " 

"  Skip  all  that ! "  cried  the  Bellman  in  haste, 
"  If  it  once  becomes  dark,  there  's  no  chance  of  a 

Snark, 
We  have  hardly  a  minute  to  waste  !  " 

u  I  skip  forty  years,"  said  the  Baker,  in  tears, 
"  And  proceed  without  further  remark 

To  the  day  when  you  took  me  aboard  of  your  ship 
To  help  you  in  hunting  the  Snark. 

"  You  may  seek  it  with  thimbles  —  and  seek  it  with 

care; 

You  may  hunt  it  with  forks  and  hope; 
You  may  threaten  its  life  with  a  railway-share; 
You  may  charm  it  with  smiles  and  soap  — 
[99] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  I  said  it  in  Hebrew  —  I  said  it  in  Dutch  — 

I  said  it  in  German  and  Greek  ; 
But  I  wholly  forgot  (and  it  vexes  me  much) 

That  English  is  what  you  speak  !  " 

"The  thing  can  be  done,"  said  the  Butcher,  "I 
think 

The  thing  must  be  done,  I  am  sure. 
The  thing  shall  be  done!      Bring  me  paper  and  ink, 

The  best  there  is  time  to  procure." 


So  engrossed  was  the  Butcher,  he  heeded  them 
As  he  wrote  with  a  pen  in  each  hand, 

And  explained  all  the  while  in  a  popular  style 
Which  the  Beaver  could  well  understand. 

u  Taking  Three  as  the  subject  to  reason  about 
A  convenient  number  to  state  — 

We  add  Seven  and  Ten  and  then  multiply  out 
By  One  Thousand  diminished  by  Eight. 


"  The  result  we  proceed  to  divide,  as  you  see, 
By  Nine  Hundred  and  Ninety  and  Two  ; 

Then  subtract  Seventeen,  and  the  answer  must  be 
Exactly  and  perfectly  true. 

"  As  to  temper,  the  Jubjub  's  a  desperate  bird, 

Since  it  lives  in  perpetual  passion  : 
Its  taste  in  costume  is  entirely  absurd  — 

It  is  ages  ahead  of  the  fashion 
[  100  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  Its  flavor  when  cooked  is  more  exquisite  far 

Than  mutton  or  oysters  or  eggs  : 
(Some  think  it  keeps  best  in  an  ivory  jar, 

And  some,  in  mahogany  kegs :) 

"  You  boil  it  in  sawdust ;  you  salt  it  in  glue  : 
You  condense  it  with  locusts  and  tape  ; 

Still  keeping  one  principal  object  in  view  — 
To  preserve  its  symmetrical  shape." 

The  Butcher  would  gladly  have  talked  till  next  day, 
But  he  felt  that  the  Lesson  must  end, 

And  he  wept  with  delight  in  attempting  to  say 
He  considered  the  Beaver  his  friend. 

Lewis  Carroll. 

SYLVIE   AND   BRUNO 

HE  thought  he  saw  a  Banker's  clerk 
Descending  from  the  'bus  ; 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 
A  Hippopotamus. 

"If  this  should  stay  to  dine,"  he  said, 
"  There  won't  be  much  for  us  !  " 

He  thought  he  saw  an  Albatross 
That  fluttered  round  the  lamp  : 

He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 
A  Penny-Postage-Stamp. 

"  You  'd  best  be  getting  home,"  he  said  ; 
"  The  nights  are  very  damp  !  " 
[101] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Coach-and-Four 

That  stood  beside  his  bed  : 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  Bear  without  a  Head. 
"  Poor  thing,"  he  said,  "  poor  silly  thing ! 

It 's  waiting  to  be  fed  ! " 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Kangaroo 

That  worked  a  coffee-mill : 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  Vegetable-Pill. 
"  Were  I  to  swallow  this,"  he  said, 

"  I  should  be  very  ill !  " 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Rattlesnake 
That  questioned  him  in  Greek  : 

He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 
The  iMiddle  of  Next  Week. 

"  The  one  thing  I  regret,"  he  said, 
"  Is  that  it  cannot  speak  !  " 

Lewis  Carroll. 


GENTLE   ALICE   BROWN 

IT    was  a  robber's  daughter,  and   her  name  was 
Alice  Brown. 
Her  father  was  the  terror  of  a  small  Italian 

town  ; 
Her  mother  was  a  foolish,  weak,  but  amiable  old 

thing ; 
But  it  is  n't  of  her  parents  that  I  'm  going  for  to  sing. 

[102] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

As  Alice  was  a-sitting.at  her  window-sill  one  day, 

A  beautiful  young  gentleman  he  chanced  to  pass 
that  way  ; 

She  cast  her  eyes  upon  him,  and  he  looked  so  good 
and  true, 

That  she  thought,  "I  could  be  happy  with  a  gentle- 
man like  you  !  " 

And  every  morning  passed  her  house  that  cream 

of  gentlemen, 
She  knew  she  might  expect  him  at  a  quarter  unto 

ten, 

A  sorter  in  the  Custom-house,  it  was  his  daily  road 
(The  Custom-house  was  fifteen  minutes'  walk  from 

her  abode.) 

But  Alice  was  a  pious  girl,  who  knew  it  was  n't 

wise 
To  look  at  strange  young  sorters  with  expressive 

purple  eyes ; 
So  she    sought    the    village    priest    to  whom    her 

family  confessed, 
The  priest  by  whom  their  little  sins  were  carefully 

assessed. 

"  Oh,  holy   father,"   Alice  said,  "  't  would  grieve 

you,  would  it  not  ? 

To  discover  that  I  was  a  most  disreputable  lot ! 
Of  all   unhappy   sinners   I  'm   the   most   unhappy 

one!" 
The   padre  said,  "  Whatever  have  you  been  and 

gone  and  done  ?  " 

[  I03  3 


A   Nonsense  Anthology 

"  I    have    helped    mamma  to   steal   a    little  kiddy 

from   its  dad, 

I've  assisted  dear  papa  in  cutting  up  a  little  lad. 
I  've  planned  a  little  burglary   and   forged  a  little 

check, 
And  slain  a  little  baby  for  the  coral  on  its  neck  !  " 

The  worthy   pastor  heaved  a  sigh,  and  dropped  a 

silent  tear  — 
And  said,  "You  must  n't  judge  yourself  too  heavily, 

my  dear  — 
It 's  wrong   to   murder  babies,  little   corals   for  to 

fleece ; 
But  sins  like  these  one  expiates   at   half-a-crown 

apiece. 

"Girls  will  be  girls  —  you're  very  young,  and 
flighty  in  your  mind; 

Old  heads  upon  young  shoulders  we  must  not  ex- 
pect to  find  : 

We  must  n't  be  too  hard  upon  these  little  girlish 
tricks  — 

Let 's  see  —  five  crimes  at  half-a-crown  —  exactly 
twelve-and-six." 

"Oh,  father,"  little  Alice  cried,  "your  kindness 

makes  me  weep, 
You   do  these   little   things    for   me  so  singularly 

cheap  — 

Your  thoughtful  liberality  I  never  can  forget ; 
But  O  there  is  another  crime  I  have  n't  mentioned 

yet! 

[  I04] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  A  pleasant-looking  gentleman,  with  pretty  purple 

eyes, 
I  've  noticed  at  my  window,  as  I  've  sat  a-catching 

flies; 

He  passes  by  it  every  day  as  certain  as  can  be  — 
I  blush   to   say   I  've  winked  at   him  and    he  has 

winked  at   me  !  " 

"  For    shame,"    said     Father     Paul,    "  my    erring 

daughter!      On  my  word 
This  is  the  most  distressing  news  that  I  have  ever 

heard. 
Why,  naughty  girl,  your  excellent  papa  has  pledged 

your  hand 
To  a   promising  young  robber,  the  lieutenant  of 

his  band! 

"  This  dreadful  piece  of  news  will  pain  your  worthy 

parents  so  ! 

They  are  the  most  remunerative  customers  I  know; 
For  many  many  years  they  Ve  kept  starvation  from 

my  doors, 
I  never  knew  so  criminal  a  family  as  yours  ! 

"  The  common  country  folk  in  this  insipid  neigh- 
borhood 

Have  nothing  to  confess,  they  're  so  ridiculously 
good  ; 

And  if  you  marry  any  one  respectable  at  all, 

Why,  you'll  reform,  and  what  will  then  become 
of  Father  Paul  ?  " 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

The  worthy  priest,  he  up  and  drew  his  cowl  upon 

his  crown, 
And  started  off  in  haste  to  tell  the  news  to  Robber 

Brown  ; 
To  tell  him  how  his  daughter,  who  now  was  for 

marriage  fit, 
Had  winked  upon  a  sorter,  who  reciprocated  it. 

Good    Robber    Brown,  he    muffled    up   his  anger 

pretty  well, 
He  said,  "  I   have  a  notion,  and  that  notion  I  will 

tell; 
I  will  nab  this  gay  young  sorter,  terrify   him  into 

fits, 
And  get  my  gentle  wife  to  chop  him  into  little  bits. 

"  I  Ve  studied   human   nature,  and  I   know  a  thing 

or  two, 
Though  a  girl  may  fondly  love  a  living  gent,  as 

many   do  — 

A  feeling  of  disgust  upon  her  senses  there  will  fall 
When  she  looks  upon  his  body  chopped  particularly 

small." 

He  traced   that   gallant   sorter  to  a  still  suburban 
square ; 

He  watched   his   opportunity   and   seized   him   un- 
aware; 

He  took   a  life-preserver  and    he   hit  him   on   the 
head, 

And  Mrs.  Brown  dissected  him  before  she  went  to 
bed. 

[106] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  pretty  little  Alice    grew   more  settled  in  her 

mind, 
She   nevermore  was  guilty  of  a   weakness  of  the 

kind, 
Until  at  length   good   Robber  Brown  bestowed  her 

pretty  hand 
On  the  promising  young   robber,  the  lieutenant  of 

his  band. 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 


THE  STORY    OF    PRINCE   AGIB 


STRIKE   the  concertina's  melancholy  string ! 
Blow  the  spirit-stirring  harp  like  any  thing  ! 
Let  the  piano's  martial  blast 
Rouse  the  Echoes  of  the  Past, 
For  of  Agib,  Prince  of  Tartary,  I  sing  ! 

Of  Agib,  who  amid  Tartaric  scenes, 
Wrote  a  lot  of  ballet-music  in  his  teens : 

His  gentle  spirit  rolls 

In  the  melody  of  souls  — 
Which  is  pretty,  but  I  don't  know  what  it  means 

Of  Agib,  who  could  readily,  at  sight, 
Strum  a  march  upon  the  loud  Theodolite : 

He  would  diligently  play 

On  the  Zoetrope  all  day, 
And  blow  the  gay  Pantechnicon  all  night. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

One  winter  —  I  am  shaky  in  my  dates  — 
Came  two  starving  minstrels  to  his  gates, 

Oh,  Allah  be  obeyed, 

How  infernally  they  played  ! 
I  remember  that  they  called  themselves  the"  Oiiaits." 

Oh  !    that  day  of  sorrow,  misery,  and  rage, 
I  shall  carry  to  the  Catacombs  of  Age, 

Photographically  lined 

On  the  tablet  of  my  mind, 
When  a  yesterday  has  faded  from  its  page  ! 

Alas !   Prince  Agib  went  and  asked  them  in  ! 
Gave  them  beer,  and   eggs,  and  sweets,  and  scents, 
and  tin. 

And  when  (as  snobs  would  say) 

They  "  put  it  all  away," 
He  requested  them  to  tune  up  and  begin. 

Though  its  icy  horror  chill  you  to  the  core, 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  never  told  before, 

The  consequences  true 

Of  that  awful  interview, 
For  I  listened  at  the  key-bole  in  the  door  ! 

They  played  him  a  sonata  —  let  me  see! 
a  Medulla  oblongata  "  —  key  of  G. 

Then  they  began  to  sing 

That  extremely  lovely  thing, 
"  Scherzando  !   ma  non  troppo,  ppp." 
f  108  1 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 

He    gave    them    money,    more    than    they    could 

count, 
Scent,  from  a  most  ingenious  little  fount, 

More  beer,  in  little  kegs, 

Many  dozen  hard-boiled  eggs, 
And  goodies  to  a  fabulous  amount. 

Now  follows  the  dim  horror  of  my  tale, 
And  I  feel  I  'm  growing  gradually  pale, 

For,  even  at  this  day, 

Though  its  sting  has  passed  away, 
When  I  venture  to  remember  it,  I  quail ! 

The  elder  of  the  brothers  gave  a  squeal, 
All-overish  it  made  me  for  to  feel ! 

"  Oh  Prince,"  he  says,  says  he, 

u  If  a  Prince  indeed  you  be^ 
I  've  a  mystery  I  'm  going  to  reveal ! 

"  Oh,  listen,  if  you  'd  shun  a  horrid  death, 

To  what  the  gent  who  's  speaking  to  you,  saith  : 

No  4  Oiiaits  '  in  truth  are  we, 

As  you  fancy  that  we  be, 
For  (ter-remble)  I  am  Aleck  —  this  is  Beth  !  " 

Said  Agib,  "  Oh  !  accursed  of  your  kind, 

I  have  heard  that  you  are  men  of  evil  mind  !  " 

Beth  gave  a  dreadful  shriek  — 

But  before  he  'd  time  to  speak 
I  was  mercilessly  collared  from  behind. 
[  I09] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

In  number  ten  or  twelve  or  even  more, 
They  fastened  me,  full  length  upon  the  floor. 

On  my  face  extended  flat 

I  was  walloped  with  a  cat 
For  listening  at  the  key-hole  of  the  door. 

Oh  !  the  horror  of  that  agonizing  thrill ! 
(I  can  feel  the  place  in  frosty  weather  still). 

For  a  week  from  ten  to  four 

I  was  fastened  to  the  floor, 
While  a  mercenary  wopped  me  with  a  will ! 

They  branded  me,  and  broke  me  on  a  wheel, 
And  they  left  me  in  an  hospital  to  heal ; 

And,  upon  my  solemn  word, 

I  have  never  never  heard 
What  those  Tartars  had  determined  to  reveal. 

But  that  day  of  sorrow,  misery,  and  rage, 
I  shall  carry  to  the  Catacombs  of  Age, 

Photographically  lined 

On  the  tablet  of  my  mind, 
When  a  yesterday  has  faded  from  its  page  ! 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 


FERDINANDO   AND   ELVIRA,   OR 
THE   GENTLE   PIEMAN 


L 


OVE  you  ?  "  said  I,  then   I   sighed,  and  then 

I  gazed  upon  her  sweetly  — 
For  I  think  I  do  this  sort  of  thing  particu- 
larly neatly  — 

fno] 


A    Nonsense    Anthology 

"  Tell    me  whither  I  may  hie  me,  tell  me,  dear 

one,  that  I  may  know  — 
Is    it    up    the    highest    Andes  ?    down    a    horrible 

volcano  ?  " 


But  she  said,  "  It  is  n't  polar  bears,  :or  hot  vol- 
canic grottoes, 

Only  find  out  who  it  is  that  writes  those  lovely 
cracker  mottoes." 


Seven  weary  years  I  wandered  —  Patagonia,  China, 

Norway, 
Till  at  last  I  sank  exhausted,  at  a  pastrycook  his 

doorway. 

And   he  chirped   and  sang  and  skipped  about,  and 

laughed  with  laughter  hearty, 
He    was    wonderfully    active    for   so    very   stout   a 

party. 

And  I  said,  "  Oh,  gentle  pieman,  why  so  very,  very 

merry  ? 
Is  it  purity  of  conscience,  or  your  one-and-seven 

sherry  ?  " 

"  Then  I  polish  all  the  silver  which  a  supper-table 

lacquers ; 
Then   I   write  the  pretty  mottoes  which  you   find 

inside  the  crackers." 
[in] 


"  Found    at    last !  "    I    madly   shouted.     "  Gentle 

pieman,  you  astound  me  !" 
Then    I    waved    the    turtle    soup    enthusiastically 

round  me. 

And   I   shouted  and   I  danced  until   he  'd  quite  a 

crowd  around  him, 
And    I   rushed   away,  exclaiming,  "  I    have   found 

him  !      I  have  found  him  !  " 

W.  S.  Gilbert. 


T 


GENERAL   JOHN 

HE  bravest  names  for  fire  and  flames, 

And  all  that  mortal  durst, 
Were  General  John  and  Private  James, 
Of  the  Sixty-seventy-first. 


General  John  was  a  soldier  tried, 

A  chief  of  warlike  dons  ; 
A  haughty  stride  and  a  withering  pride 

Were  Major-General  John. 

A  sneer  would  play  on  his  martial  phiz, 

Superior  birth  to  show  ; 
"  Pish  !  "  was  a  favorite  word  of  his, 

And  he  often  said  "  Ho  !   ho  !  " 

Full-Private  James  described  mighf  be, 
As  a  man  of  mournful  mind  ; 

No  characteristic  trait  had  he 
Of  any  distinctive  kind. 

[  »*] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

From  the  ranks,  one  day,  cried  Private  James, 

"  Oh  !   Major-General  John, 
I  've  doubts  of  our  respective  names, 

My  mournful  mind  upon. 

"  A  glimmering  thought  occurs  to  me, 

(Its  source  I  can't  unearth), 
But  I  've  a  kind  of  notion  we 

Were  cruelly  changed  at  birth. 

"  I  've  a  strange  idea,  each  other's  names 

That  we  have  each  got  on. 
Such  things  have  been,"  said  Private  James. 

"  They  have  !  "  sneered  General  John. 

44  My  General  John,  I  swear  upon 

My  oath  I  think  it  is  so  —  " 
44  Pish  !  "  proudly  sneered  his  General  John, 

And  he  also  said  "  Ho  !  ho  !  " 


"  My  General  John  !   my  General  John  ! 

My  General  John  !  "  quoth  he, 
"This  aristocratical  sneer  upon 

Your  face  I  blush  to  see. 


"  No  truly  great  or  generous  cove 

Deserving  of  them  names 
Would  sneer  at  a  fixed  idea  that 's  drove 

In  the  mind  of  a  Private  James  !  " 

Is  J  [  H3] 


Said  General  John,  "  Upon  your  claims 

No  need  your  breath  to  waste  ; 
If  this  is  a  joke,  Full-Private  James, 

It 's  a  joke  of  doubtful  taste. 

"  But  being  a  man  of  doubtless  worth, 

If  you  feel  certain  quite 
That  we  were  probably  changed  at  birth, 

I  '11  venture  to  say  you  're  right." 

So  General  John  as  Private  James 

Fell  in,  parade  upon  ; 
And  Private  James,  by  change  of  names, 

Was  Major-General  John. 

W.  S.  Gilbert 


LITTLE   BILLEE 


THERE  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  City 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea, 
But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuits^ 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 

There  was  gorging  Jack,  and  guzzling  Jimmy, 
And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee. 

Now  when  they  'd  got  as  far  as  the  Equator, 
They  'd  nothing  left  but  one  split  pea. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"  I  am  extremely  hungaree." 
To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"  We  've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we." 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"  With  one  another  we  should  n't  agree  ! 

There 's  little  Bill,  he  's  young  and  tender, 
We  're  old  and  tough,  so  let 's  eat  he." 

"  O  Billy  !  we  're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you, 
So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie." 

When  Bill  received  this  information, 
He  used  his  pocket-handkerchie. 

"  First  let  me  say  my  catechism, 

Which  my  poor  mother  taught  to  me." 

"  Make  haste  !  make  haste  !  "  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 
While  Jack  pulled  out  his  snicker-snee. 

Then  Bill  went  up  to  the  main-top-gallant-mast, 
And  down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee, 

He  scarce  had  come  to  the  Twelfth  Commandment 
When  up  he  jumps  —  "  There  's  land  I  see  !  " 

"  Jerusalem  and  Madagascar, 

And  North  and  South  Amerikee, 
There  's  the  British  flag  a-riding  at  anchor, 

With  Admiral  Napier,  K.C.B." 
["5] 


So  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  Admiral's, 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged  Jimmee, 

But  as  for  little  Bill,  he  made  him 
The  captain  of  a  Seventy-three. 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


THE  WRECK   OF   THE   "JULIE 
PLANTE"* 


ON  wan  dark  night  on  Lac  St.  Pierre, 
De  win'  she  blow,  blow,  blow, 
An'  de  crew  of  de  wood  scow  "Julie  Plante  " 
Got  scar't  an'  run  below  — 
For  de  win'  she  blow  lak  hurricane ; 

Bimeby  she  blow  some  more, 
An'  de  scow  bus'  up  on  Lac  St.  Pierre 
Wan  arpent  from  de  shore. 

De  captinne  walk  on  de  fronte  deck, 

An'  walk  de  hin'  deck  too  — 
He  call  de  crew  from  up  de  hole, 

He  call  de  cook  also. 
De  cook  she 's  name  was  Rosie, 

She  come  from  Montreal, 
Was  chambre  maid  on  lumber  barge, 

On  de  Grande  Lachine  Canal. 

*  By  permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  ;  from  "  Tht  Habitant,'* 
copyright,  1897. 

[116] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

De  win'  she  blow  from  nor'-eas'-wes',  — 

De  sout'  win'  she  blow  too, 
Wen  Rosie  cry,  "  Mon  cher  captinne, 

Mon  cher,  w'at  I  shall  do  ?  " 
Den  de  captinne  t'row  de  big  ankerre, 

But  still  de  scow  she  dreef, 
De  crew  he  can't  pass  on  de  shore, 

Becos  he  los'  hees  skeef. 

De  night  was  dark  lak  wan  black  cat, 

De  wave  run  high  an'  fas', 
Wen  de  captinne  tak'  de  Rosie  girl 

An'  tie  her  to  de  mas'. 
Den  he  also  tak'  de  life  preserve, 

An'  jomp  off  on  de  lak', 
An'  say,  "  Good-by,  ma  Rosie  dear, 

I  go  down  for  your  sak'." 

Nex'  morning  very  early 

'Bout  ha'f-pas'  two  —  t'ree  —  four  — 
De  captinne  —  scow  —  an'  de  poor  Rosie 

Was  corpses  on  de  shore. 
For  de  win'  she  blow  lak'  hurricane, 

Bimeby  she  blow  some  more, 
An'  de  scow,  bus'  up  on  Lac  St.  Pierre, 

Wan  arpent  from  de  shore. 

MORAL 

Now  all  good  wood  scow  sailor  man 

Tak'  warning  by  dat  storm 
An'  go  an'  marry  some  nice  French  girl 

An'  live  on  wan  beeg  farm. 
[  "7] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

De  win'  can  blow  lak'  hurricane 
An'  s'pose  she  blow  some  more, 

You  can't  get  drown  on  Lac  St.  Pierre 
So  long  you  stay  on  shore. 

William  H.  Drummond 


THE   SHIPWRECK 

UPON  the  poop  the  captain  stands, 
As  starboard  as  may  be ; 
And  pipes  on  deck  the  topsail  hands 
To  reef  the  topsail-gallant  strands 
Across  the  briny  sea. 

"  Ho  !  splice  the  anchor  under-weigh  !  " 

The  captain  loudly  cried ; 
u  Ho  !  lubbers  brave,  belay  !   belay  ! 
For  we  must  luff  for  Falmouth  Bay 

Before  to-morrow's  tide." 

The  good  ship  was  a  racing  yawl, 

A  spare-rigged  schooner  sloop, 

Athwart  the  bows  the  taffrails  all 

In  grummets  gay  appeared  to  fall, 

To  deck  the  mainsail  poop. 

But  ere  they  made  the  Foreland  Light, 

And  Deal  was  left  behind, 
The  wind  it  blew  great  gales  that  night, 
And  blew  the  doughty  captain  tight, 

Full  three  sheets  in  the  wind. 
[118] 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 

And  right  across  the  tiller  head 

The  horse  it  ran  apace, 
Whereon  a  traveller  hitched  and  sped 
Along  the  jib  and  vanished 

To  heave  the  trysail  brace. 

What  ship  could  live  in  such  a  sea  ? 

What  vessel  bear  the  shock  ? 
"  Ho  !   starboard  port  your  helm-a-lee  ! 
Ho!   reef  the  maintop-gallant-tree, 

With  many  a  running  block  !  " 

And  right  upon  the  Scilly  Isles 

The  ship  had  run  aground ; 
When  lo !  the  stalwart  Captain  Giles 
Mounts  up  upon  the  gaff  and  smiles, 

And  slews  the  compass  round. 

"  Saved  !   saved  !  "   with  joy  the  sailors  cry, 

And  scandalize  the  skiff; 
As  taut  and  hoisted  high  and  dry 
They  see  the  ship  unstoppered  lie 

Upon  the  sea-girt  cliff. 

And  since  that  day  in  Falmouth  Bay, 

As  herring-fishers  trawl, 
The  younkers  hear  the  boatswains  say 
How  Captain  Giles  that  awful  day 

Preserved  the  sinking  yawl. 

E.  H.  Palmer. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 
A   SAILOR'S   YARN* 

As  narrated  by  the  second  mate  to  one  of  the  marines. 

r  T^HIS  is  the  tale  that  was  told  to  me, 

By  a  battered  and  shattered  son  of  the  sea : 
To  me  and  my  messmate,  Silas  Green, 

When  I  was  a  guileless  young  marine. 

"  'T  was  the  gopd  ship  4  Gyacutus,' 
All  in  the  China  seas  ; 
With  the  wind  a  lee,  and  the  capstan  free, 
To  catch  the  summer  breeze. 

"  'T  was  Captain  Porgie  on  the  deck 

To  the  mate  in  the  mizzen  hatch, 

While  the  boatswain  bold,  in  the  for'ard  hold, 

Was  winding  his  larboard  watch. 

"  l  Oh,  how  does  our  good  ship  head  to-night  ? 
How  heads  our  gallant  craft  ? ' 
'  Oh,  she  heads  to  the  E.  S.  W.  by  N. 
And  the  binnacle  lies  abaft.' 

"  '  Oh,  what  does  the  quadrant  indicate  ? 
And  how  does  the  sextant  stand  ? ' 
1  Oh,  the  sextant  's  down  to  the  freezing  point 
And  the  quadrant  's  lost  a  hand.' 

*  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  ;  from  "  Ballads  of 
Blue  Water,"  copyright,  1895. 

[120] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  '  Oh,  if  the  quadrant 's  lost  a  hand, 
And  the  sextant  falls  so  low, 
It 's  our  body  and  bones  to  Davy  Jones 
This  night  are  bound  to  go. 

"  4  Oh,  fly  aloft  to  the  garboard-strake, 
And  reef  the  spanker  boom, 
Bend  a  stubbing  sail  on  the  martingale 
To  give  her  weather  room. 


utOh,  boatswain,  down  in  the  for'ard  hold 
What  water  do  you  find  ?  ' 
4  Four  foot  and  a  half  by  the  royal  gaff" 
And  rather  more  behind.' 


"  '  Oh,  sailors,  collar  your  marline  spikes 
And  each  belaying  pin  ; 
Come,  stir  your  stumps  to  spike  the  pumps, 
Or  more  will  be  coming  in.' 

u  l  They  stirred  their  stumps,  they  spiked  the  pumps 
They  spliced  the  mizzen  brace ; 
Aloft  and  alow  they  worked,  but,  oh  ! 
The  water  gained  apace. 

"  They  bored  a  hole  below  her  line 
To  let  the  water  out, 
But  more  and  more  with  awful  roar 
The  water  in  did  spout. 

r  121] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  Then  up  spoke  the  cook  of  our  gallant  ship  — 

And  he  was  a  lubber  brave  — 

4 1  've  several  wives  in  various  ports, 

And  my  life  I  'd  like  to  save.' 

"  Then  up  spoke  the  captain  of  marines, 
Who  dearly  loved  his  prog: 
1  It 's  awful  to  die,  and  it 's  worse  to  be  dry, 
And  I  move  we  pipes  to  grog.' 

"  Oh,  then  't  was  the  gallant  second-mate 
As  stopped  them  sailors'  jaw, 
'T  was  the  second-mate  whose  hand  had  weight 
In  laying  down  the  law. 

"  He  took  the  anchor  on  his  back, 

And  leapt  into  the  main ; 

Through  foam  and  spray  he  clove  his  way, 

And  sunk,  and  rose  again. 

"  Through  foam  and  spray  a  league  away 
The  anchor  stout  he  bore, 
Till,  safe  at  last,  I  made  it  fast, 
And  warped  the  ship  ashore." 

This  is  the  tale  that  was  told  to  me, 
By  that  modest  and  truthful  son  of  the  sea. 
And  I  envy  the  life  of  a  second  mate, 
Though  captains  curse  him  and  sailors  hate ; 
For  he  ain't  like  some  of  the  swabs  I  've  seen, 
As  would  go  and  lie  to  a  poor  marine. 

J.  J.  Roche. 

[122] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

THE   WALLOPING   WINDOW- 
BLIND  * 

A  CAPITAL  ship  for  an  ocean  trip 
Was  the  "  Walloping  Window-blind  "  — 
No  gale  that  blew  dismayed  her  crew 
Or  troubled  the  captain's  mind. 
The  man  at  the  wheel  was  taught  to  feel 

Contempt  for  the  wildest  blow, 
And    it    often    appeared,   when    the    weather    had 

cleared, 
That  he'd  been  in  his  bunk  below. 

The  boatswain's  mate  was  very  sedate, 

Yet  fond  of  amusement,  too  ; 
And  he  played  hop-scotch  with  the  starboard  watch, 

While  the  captain  tickled  the  crew. 
And  the  gunner  we  had  was  apparently  mad, 

For  he  sat  on  the  after  rail, 
And  fired  salutes  with  the  captain's  boots, 

In  the  teeth  of  the  booming  gale. 

The  captain  sat  in  a  commodore's  hat 

And  dined  in  a  royal  way 
On  toasted  pigs  and  pickles  and  figs 

And  gummery  bread  each  day. 
But  the  cook  was  Dutch*  and  behaved  as  such : 

For  the  food  that  he  gave  the  crew 
Was  a  number  of  tons  of  hot-cross  buns 

Chopped  up  with  sugar  and  glue. 

*  By  permission  of  the  author;   from    "Davy   and  the  Goblin," 
copyright,  1884,  1885,  by  the  Century  Co.  ;    1885,  by  Ticknor  &  Co 


A   Nonsense    Anthology 

And  we  all  felt  ill  as  mariners  will, 

On  a  diet  that 's  cheap  and  rude ; 
And  we  shivered  and  shook  as  we  dipped  the  cook 

In  a  tub  of  his  gluesome  food. 
Then  nautical  pride  we  laid  aside, 

And  we  cast  the  vessel  ashore 
On  the  Gulliby  Isles,  where  the  Poohpooh  smiles, 

And  the  Anagazanders  roar. 

Composed  of  sand  was  that  favored  land, 

And  trimmed  with  cinnamon  straws  ; 
And  pink  and  blue  was  the  pleasing  hue 

Of  the  Tickletoeteaser's  claws. 
And  we  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  sandy  ledge 

And  shot  at  the  whistling  bee ; 
And  the  Binnacle-bats  wore  water-proof  hats 

As  they  danced  in  the  sounding  sea. 

On  rubagub  bark,  from  dawn  to  dark, 

We  fed,  till  we  all  had  grown 
Uncommonly  shrunk,  —  when  a  Chinese  junk 

Came  by  from  the  torriby  zone. 
She  was  stubby  and  square,  but  we  did  n't  much  care, 

And  we  cheerily  put  to  sea ; 
And  we  left  the  crew  of  the  junk  to  chew 

The  bark  of  the  rubagub  tree. 

Charles  E.  Carryl. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THE   ROLLICKING   MASTODON* 

A   ROLLICKING  Mastodon  lived  in  Spain, 
In  the  trunk  of  a  Tranquil  Tree. 
His  face  was  plain,  but  his  jocular  vein 
Was  a  burst  of  the  wildest  glee. 
His  voice  was  strong  and  his  laugh  so  long 

That  people  came  many  a  mile, 
And  offered  to  pay  a  guinea  a  day 
For  the  fractional  part  of  a  smile. 

The  Rollicking  Mastodon's  laugh  was  wide  — 
Indeed,  't  was  a  matter  of  family  pride  ; 

And  oh  !   so  proud  of  his  jocular  vein 

Was  the  Rollicking  Mastodon  over  in  Spain. 

The  Rollicking  Mastodon  said  one  day, 

"  I  feel  that  I  need  some  air, 
For  a  little  ozone  's  a  tonic  for  bones, 

As  well  as  a  gloss  for  the  hair." 
So  he  skipped  along  and  warbled  a  song 

In  his  own  triumphulant  way. 
His  smile  was  bright  and  his  skip  was  light 

As  he  chirruped  his  roundelay. 

The  Rollicking  Mastodon  tripped  along, 
And  sang  what  Mastodons  call  a  song ; 

But  every  note  of  it  seemed  to  pain 

The  Rollicking  Mastodon  over  in  Spain. 

*  By  permission  of  Lothrop   Publishing   Company  5   from  "Wide 
Awake,"  copyright. 

Osj 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

A  Little  Peetookle  came  over  the  hill, 

Dressed  up  in  a  bollitant  coat ; 
And  he  said,  "  You  need  some  harroway  seed, 

And  a  little  advice  for  your  throat." 
The  Mastodon  smiled  and  said,  "  My  child, 

There  's  a  chance  for  your  taste  to  grow. 
If  you  polish  your  mind,  you  '11  certainly  find 

How  little,  how  little  you  know." 

The  Little  Peetookle,  his  teeth  he  ground 
At  the  Mastodon's  singular  sense  of  sound  ; 

For  he  felt  it  a  sort  of  a  musical  stain 

On  the  Rollicking  Mastodon  over  in  Spain. 

Alas  !   and  alas  !   has  it  come  to  this  pass  ?  " 

Said  the  Little  Peetookle.     "Dear  me! 
It  certainly  seems  your  horrible  screams 

Intended  for  music  must  be  !  " 
The  Mastodon  stopped,  his  ditty  he  dropped, 

And  murmured,  "  Good  morning,  my  dear ! 
I  never  will  sing  to  a  sensitive  thing 

That  shatters  a  song  with  a  sneer  !  " 

The  Rollicking  Mastodon  bade  him  "  adieu." 
Of  course  't  was  a  sensible  thing  to  do; 

For  Little  Peetookle  is  spared  the  strain 
Of  the  Rollicking  Mastodon  over  in  Spain. 

Arthur  Macy. 


THE   SILVER   QUESTION* 


Sun  appeared  so  smug  and  bright, 
One  day,  that  I  made  bold 
To  ask  him  what  he  did  each  night 
With  all  his  surplus  gold. 

He  flushed  uncomfortably  red, 

And  would  not  meet  my  eye. 
"  I  travel  round  the  world,"  he  said, 

"  And  travelling  rates  are  high." 

With  frigid  glance  I  pierced  him  through. 

He  squirmed  and  changed  his  tune. 
Said  he  :  "I  will  be  frank  with  you  : 

I  lend  it  to  the  Moon. 

"  Poor  thing  !     You  know  she  's  growing  old 

And  has  n't  any  folk. 
She  suffers  terribly  from  cold, 

And  half  the  time  she  's  broke." 

•          •••••• 

That  evening  on  the  beach  I  lay 

Behind  a  lonely  dune, 
And  as  she  rose  above  the  bay 

I  buttonholed  the  Moon. 

"  Tell  me  about  that  gold,"  said  I. 

I  saw  her  features  fall. 
"  You  see,  it  's  useless  to  deny  ; 

The  Sun  has  told  me  all." 

*   By  permission  of  the  author;   from  the  "Century  Magazine,'' 
copyright,  1901. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  Sir  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  how  can  you  try 

An  honest  Moon  this  way  ? 
As  for  the  gold,  I  put  it  by 

Against  a  rainy  day." 

I  smiled  and  shook  my  head.     "  All  right, 

If  you  must  know,"  said  she, 
"  I  change  it  into  silver  bright 

Wherewith  to  tip  the  Sea. 

"  He  is  so  faithful  and  so  good, 

A  most  deserving  case ; 
If  he  should  leave,  I  fear  it  would 

Be  hard  to  fill  his  place." 

When  asked  if  they  accepted  tips, 

The  waves  became  so  rough  ; 
I  thought  of  those  at  sea  in  ships, 

And  felt  I  'd  said  enough. 

For  if  one  virtue  I  have  learned, 

'T  is  tact ;   so  I  forbore 
To  press  the  matter,  though  I  burned 

To  ask  one  question  more. 

I  hate  a  scene,  and  do  not  wish 

To  be  mixed  up  in  gales, 
But,  oh,  I  longed  to  ask  the  Fish 

Whence  came  their  silver  scales  ! 

Oliver  Herfora. 
[128] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

THE    SINGULAR    SANGFROID    OF 
BABY   BUNTING* 

BARTHOLOMEW  Benjamin  Bunting 
Had  only  three  passions  in  life, 
And  one  of  the  trio  was  hunting, 
The  others  his  babe  and  his  wife. 
And  always,  so  rigid  his  habits, 

He  frolicked  at  home  until  two, 

And  then  started  hunting  for  rabbits, 

And  hunted  till  fall  of  the  dew. 

Belinda  Bellonia  Bunting, 

Thus  widowed  for  half  of  the  day, 
Her  duty  maternal  confronting, 

With  baby  would  patiently  play. 
When  thus  was  her  energy  wasted, 

A  patented  food  she  'd  dispense. 
(She  had  bought  it  the  day  that  they  pasted 

The  posters  all  over  her  fence.) 

But  Bonaparte  Buckingham  Bunting, 

The  infant  thus  blindly  adored, 
Replied  to  her  worship  by  grunting, 

Which  showed  he  was  brutally  bored. 
'T  was  little  he  cared  for  the  troubles 

Of  life.     Like  a  crab  on  the  sands, 
From  his  sweet  little  mouth  he  blew  bubbles, 

And  threatened  the  air  with  his  hands. 

*   By  permission  of  Harper  &  Brothers  ;  from  "  Mother  Goose  for 
Grown-ups,"  copyright,  1900. 

[9]  CI29] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Bartholomew  Benjamin  Bunting 

One  night,  as  his  wife  let  him  in, 
Produced  as  the  fruit  of  his  hunting 

A  cottontail's  velvety  skin, 
Which,  seeing  young  Bonaparte  wriggle, 

He  gave  him  without  a  demur, 
And  the  babe  with  an  aqueous  giggle 

He  swallowed  the  whole  of  the  fur ! 

Belinda  Bellonia  Bunting 

Behaved  like  a  consummate  loon  : 
Her  offspring  in  frenzy  confronting 

She  screamed  herself  mottled  maroon  : 
She  felt  of  his  vertebrae  spinal, 

Expecting  he'd  surely  succumb, 
And  gave  him  one  vigorous,  final, 

Hard  prod  in  the  pit  of  his  turn. 

But  Bonaparte  Buckingham  Bunting, 

At  first  but  a  trifle  perplexed, 
By  a  change  in  his  manner  of  grunting 

Soon  showed  he  was  horribly  vexed. 
He  displayed  not  a  sign  of  repentance 

But  spoke,  in  a  dignified  tone, 
The  only  consecutive  sentence 

He  uttered.     'T  was  :  "  Lemme  alone." 

The  Moral :  The  parent  that  uses 

Precaution  his  folly  regrets  : 
An  infant  gets  all  that  he  chooses, 

An  infant  chews  all  that  he  gets. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  colics  r      He  constantly  has  'em 

So  long  as  his  food  is  the  best, 
But  he  '11  swallow  with  never  a  spasm 

What  ostriches  could  n't  digest. 

Guy  Wetmore  Carrel. 


FAITHLESS   NELLY   GRAY 


BEN  BATTLE  was  a  soldier  bold, 
And  used  to  war's  alarms  : 
But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 
So  he  laid  down  his  arms  ! 

Now,  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 

Said  he,  "  Let  others  shoot, 
For  here  I  leave  my  second  leg, 

And  the  Forty-second  Foot !  " 

The  army  surgeons  made  him  limbs : 
Said  he,  "  They  're  only  pegs  ; 

But  there  's  as  wooden  members  quite, 
As  represent  my  legs  !  " 

Now  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid, 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray; 
So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours 

When  he'd  devoured  his  pay  ! 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 
She  made  him  quite  a  scoff; 

And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs, 
Began  to  take  them  off! 

«  O  Nelly  Gray  !     O  Nelly  Gray  ! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat, 

Should  be  more  uniform  !  " 


Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once, 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave ; 
But  1  will  never  have  a  man 

With  both  legs  in  the  grave  ! 

"  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes, 

Your  love  I  did  allow, 
But  then  you  know,  you  stand  upon 

Another  footing  now  !  " 

«  O  Nelly  Gray  !      O  Nelly  Gray  ! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 
At  duty's  call  I  left  my  legs 

In  Badajos's  breaches  !  " 

"  Why,  then,"  said  she,  "you've  lost  the  fe-et 

Of  legs  in  war's  alarms, 
And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 

Upon  your  feats  of  arms  !  " 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  Oh,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray ; 

I  know  why  you  refuse : 
Though  I  Ve  no  feet  —  some  other  man 

Is  standing  in  my  shoes  ! 

u  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face  ; 

But  now  a  long  farewell  ! 
For  you  will  be  my  death  —  alas  ! 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell !  " 

Now,  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got  — 
And  life  was  such  a  burden  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a  knot ! 


So  round  his  melancholy  neck 
A  rope  he  did  entwine, 

And,  for  his  second  time  in  life 
Enlisted  in  the  Line  ! 


One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 
And  then  removed  his  pegs, 

And  as  his  legs  were  off,  —  of  course, 
He  soon  was  off  his  legs  ! 

And  there  he  hung  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town,  — 
For  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down  ! 
[  '33] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died  — 
And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 

With  a  stake  in  his  inside  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 

THE   ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN 


B 


Y  the  side  of  a  murmuring  stream  an  elderly 

gentleman  sat. 

On  the  top  of  his  head  was  a  wig,  and  a-top 
of  his  wig  was  his  hat. 


The  wind  it  blew  high  and  blew  strong,  as   the 

elderly  gentleman  sat ; 
And  bore  from  his  head  in  a  trice,  and  plunged  in 

the  river  his  hat. 

The  gentleman  then  took  his  cane  which  lay  by 

his  side  as  he  sat ; 
And  he  dropped  in  the  river  his  wig,  in  attempting 

to  get  out  his  hat. 

His  breast  it  grew  cold  with  despair,  and  full  in  his 

eye  madness  sat ; 
So  he  flung  in  the  river  his  cane  to  swim  with  his 

wig,  and  his  hat. 

Cool    reflection    at    last    came    across    while    this 

elderly  gentleman  sat ; 
So  he  thought  he  would  follow  the  stream  and  look 

for  his  cane,  wig,  and  hat. 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 

His  head  being  thicker  than  common,  o'er-balanced 

the  rest  of  his  fat ; 
And  in  plumped  this  son  of  a  woman  to  follow  his 

wig,  cane,  and  hat. 

George  Canning. 


MALUM   OPUS 


PROPE  ripam  fluvii  solus 
A  senex  silently  sat  ; 
Super  capitum  ecce  his  wig, 
Et  wig  super,  ecce  his  hat. 

Blew  Zephyrus  alte,  acerbus, 

Dum  elderly  gentleman  sat  ; 
Et  a  capite  took  up  quite  torve 

Et  in  rivum  projecit  his  hat. 

Tune  soft  maledixit  the  old  man, 

Tune  stooped  from  the  bank  where  he  sat 

I!t  cum  scipio  poked  in  the  water, 
Conatus  servare  his  hat. 


Zephyrus  alte,  acerbus, 
The  moment  it  saw  him  at  that  5 
Et  whisked  his  novum  scratch  wig 
In  flumen,  along  with  his  hat. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Ab  imo  pectore  damnavit 

In  coeruleus  eye  dolor  sat ; 
Tune  despairingly  threw  in  his  cane 

Nare  cum  his  wig  and  his  hat. 

L'ENVOI 

Contra  bonos  mores,  don't  swear 

It'est  wicked  you  know  (verbum  sat), 

Si  this  tale  habet  no  other  moral 
Mehercle  !  You  're  gratus  to  that ! 

James  Appleton  Morgan. 


AESTIVATION  * 

IN  candent  ire  the  solar  splendor  flames  ; 
The  foles,  languescent,  pend  from  arid  rames  ; 
His  humid  front  the  cive,  anheling,  wipes, 
And  dreams  of  erring  on  ventiferous  ripes. 

How  dulce  to  vive  occult  to  mortal  eyes, 
Dorm  on  the  herb  with  none  to  supervise, 
Carp  the  suave  berries  from  the  crescent  vine, 
And  bibe  the  flow  from  longicaudate  kine. 

To  me  also,  no  verdurous  visions  come 
Save  you  exiguous  pool's  confervascum,  — 
No  concave  vast  repeats  the  tender  hue 
That  laves  my  milk-jug  with  celestial  blue. 

*  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  authorized  publishers 


A    Nonsense    Anthology 

Me  wretched  !  Let  me  curr  to  quercine  shades  ! 
Effund  your  albid  hausts,  lactiferous  maids  ! 
Oh,  might  I  vole  to  some  umbrageous  chump, — 
Depart,  —  be  off,  —  excede,  —  evade,  — erump  ! 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


A   HOLIDAY   TASK 

Air  —  Jullien"s  Polka 

QUI  nunc  dancere  vult  modo 
Wants  to  dance  in  the  fashion,  oh  ! 
Discere  debet  —  ought  to  know, 
Kickere  floor  cum  heel  et  toe 
One,  two  three, 
Hop  with  me, 
Whirligig,  twirligig,  rapide. 

Polkam  jungere,  Virgo,  vis, 
Will  you  join  the  Polka,  Miss  ? 
Liberius  —  most  willingly. 
Sic  agimus  —  then  let  us  try  : 

Nunc  vide 

Skip  with  me, 
Whirlabout,  roundabout,  celere. 

Turn  laeva  cito,  turn  dextra 

First  to  the  left,  and  then  t'  other  way ; 

Aspice  retro  in  vultu, 

You  look  at  her,  and  she  looks  at  you. 


A    Nonsense    Anthology 

Das  palmam, 
Change  hands  ma'am 
Celere  —run  away,  just  in  sham. 

Gilbert  Abbott  a  Becket. 

PUER    EX   JERSEY 

PUER  ex  Jersey 
lens  ad  school ; 
Vidit  in  meadow, 
Infestum  mule. 

Ille  approaches 
O  magnus  sorrow  ! 
Puer  it  skyward. 
Funus  ad  morrow. 

MORAL 

Qui  vidit  a  thing 
Non  ei  well-known, 
Est  bene  for  him 
Relinqui  id  alone. 

Anonymous. 

THE   LITTLE   PEACH 

UNE  petite  peche  dans  un  orchard  fleurit, 
Attendez  a  mon  narration  triste ! 
Une  petite  peche  verdante  fleurit. 
Grace  a  chaleur  de  soleil,  et  moisture  de  miste. 
11  fleurit,  il  fleurit, 
Attendez  a  mon  narration  triste ! 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Signes  dures  pour  les  deux, 
Petit  Jean  et  sa  soeur  Sue, 
Et  la  peche  d'une  verdante  hue, 
Qui  fleurit,  qui  fleurit, 
Attendez  a  mon  narration  triste ! 


Anonymous. 


MONSIEUR   McGINTE 

MONSIEUR  McGinte  allait  en  has  jusqu'au 
fond  du  mer, 
Us  ne  1'ont  pas  encore  trouve 
Je  crois  qu'il  est  certainement  mouille. 
Monsieur    McGinte,  je  le  repete,  allait    jusqu'au 

fond  du  mer, 
Habille  dans  sa  meilleure  costume. 

Anonymous. 


YE  LA  YE  OF   YE  WOODPECKORE 


Picus  Erytbrocephalus : 

0    WHITHER  goest  thou,  pale  student 
Within  the  wood  so  fur? 
Art  on  the  chokesome  cherry  beitt  * 
Dost  seek  the  chestnut  burr  ? 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


Pale  Student. 

O  it  is  not  for  the  mellow  chestnut 
That  I  so  far  am  come, 

Nor  yet  for  puckery  cherries,  but 
For  Cypripedium. 


A  blossom  hangs  the  choke-cherry 
And  eke  the  chestnut  burr, 

And  thou  a  silly  fowl  must  be, 
Thou  red-head  wood-pecker. 

Picus  Erythrocephalus : 

Turn  back,  turn  back,  thou  pale  student, 

Nor  in  the  forest  go ; 
There  lurks  beneath  his  bosky  tent 

The  deadly  mosquito, 


And  there  the  wooden-chuck  doth  tread, 
And  from  the  oak-tree's  top 

The  red,  red  squirrels  on  thy  head 
The  frequent  acorn  drop. 

Pale  Student. 

The  wooden-chuck  is  next  of  kin 

Unto  the  wood-pecker : 
I  fear  not  thine  ill-boding  din, 

And  why  should  I  fear  her  ? 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

What  though  a  score  of  acorns  drop 
And  squirrels'  fur  be  red  ! 

'T  is  not  so  ruddy  as  thy  top  — 
So  scarlet  as  thy  head. 

O  rarely  blooms  the  Cypripe- 

dium  upon  its  stalk ; 
And  like  a  torch  it  shines  to  me 

Adown  the  dark  wood-walk. 

O  joy  to  pluck  it  from  the  ground, 

To  view  the  purple  sac, 
To  touch  the  sessile  stigma's  round  — 

And  shall  I  then  turn  back  ? 

Picus  Erythrocephalus  : 

O  black  and  shining  is  the  log 
That  feeds  the  sumptuous  weed, 

Nor  stone  is  found  nor  bedded  log 
Where  foot  may  well  proceed. 

Midmost  it  glimmers  in  the  mire 
Like  Jack  o'  Lanthorn's  spark, 

Lighting,  with  phosphorescent  fire, 
The  green  umbrageous  dark. 

There  while  thy  thirsty  glances  drink 
The  fair  and  baneful  plant, 

Thy  shoon  within  the  ooze  shall  sink 
And  eke  thine  either  pant. 

[HI] 


A    Nonsense   Aniho logy 

Pale  Student. 

Give  o'er,  give  o'er,  thou  wood-peckore ; 

The  bark  upon  the  tree, 
Thou,  at  thy  will,  mayst  peck  and  bore 

But  peck  and  bore  not  me. 

Full  two  long  hours  I  've  searched  about 

And  'twould  in  sooth  be  rum, 
If  I  should  now  go  back  without 

The  Cypripedium. 

Plcus  Erythrocephalus  : 

Farewell  !   Farewell  !   But  this  I  tell 

To  thee,  thou  pale  student, 
Ere  dews  have  fell,  thou  'It  rue  it  well 

That  woodward  thou  didst  went  : 

Then  whilst  thou  blows  the  drooping  nose 

And  wip'st  the  pensive  eye  — 
There  where  the  SK&symplocarpusfcetldus  grows, 

Then  think  —  O  think  of  I ! 

Loud  flouted  there  that  student  wight 

Solche  warnynge  for  to  hear  ; 
"  I  scorn,  old  hen,  thy  threats  of  might, 

And  eke  thine  ill  grammere. 

"  Go  peck  the  lice  (or  green  or  red) 
That  swarm  the  bass-wood  tree, 

But  wag  no  more  thine  addled  head 
Nor  clack  thy  tongue  at  me." 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

The  wood-peck  turned  to  whet  her  beak, 

The  student  heard  her  drum, 
As  through  the  wood  he  went  to  seek 

The  Cypripedium. 

Alas !  and  for  that  pale  student : 

The  evening  bell  did  ring, 
And  down  the  walk  the  Freshmen  went 

Unto  the  prayer-meeting; 

Upon  the  fence  loud  rose  the  song, 
The  weak,  weak  tea  was  o'er  — 

Ha !  who  is  he  that  sneaks  along 
Into  South  Middle's  door  ? 

The  mud  was  on  his  shoon,  and  O  ! 

The  briar  was  in  his  thumb, 
His  staff  was  in  his  hand  but  no  — 

No  Cypripedium. 

Henry  A.  Beers. 


COLLUSION     BETWEEN     A     ALE- 
GAITER   AND   A   WATER-SNAIK 

THERE  is  a  niland  on  a  river  lying, 
Which  runs  into  Gautimaly,  a  warm  country, 
Lying  near  the  Tropicks,  covered  with  sand  ; 
Hear  and  their  a  symptum  of  a  Wilow, 
Hanging  of  its  umberagious  limbs  &  branches 
Over  the  clear  streme  meandering  far  below. 
This  was  the  home  of  the  now  silent  Alegaiter, 
['43] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

When  not  in  his  other  element  confine'd  : 
Here  he  wood  set  upon  his  eggs  asleep 
With  i  ey  observant  of  flis  and  other  passing 
Objects  :   a  while  it  kept  a  going  on  so : 
Fereles  of  danger  was  the  happy  Alegaiter  ! 
But  a  las  !   in  a  nevil  our  he  was  fourced  to 
Wake  !  that  dreme  of  Blis  was  two  sweet  for  him. 
i  morning  the  sun  arose  with  unusool  splender 
Whitch   allso  did  our  Alegaiter,  coming  from  the 

water, 

His  scails  a  flinging  of  the  rais  of  the  son  back, 
To  the   fountain-head  which   tha  originly  sprung 

from, 

But  having  not  had  nothing  to  eat  for  some  time,  he 
Was  slepy  and  gap'd,  in  a  short  time,  widely. 
Unfoalding  soon  a  welth  of  perl-white  teth, 
The  rais  of  the  son  soon  shet  his  sinister  ey 
Because  of  their  mutool  splendor  and  warmth. 
The  evil  Our  (which  I  sed)  was  now  come; 
Evidently  a  good  chans  for  a  water-snaik 
Of  the  large  specie,  which  soon  appeared 
Into  the  horison,  near  the  bank  where  reposed 
Calmly  in  slepe  the  Alegaiter  before  spoken  of. 
About  60  feet  was  his  Length  (not  the  'gaiter) 
And  he  was  aperiently  a  well-proportioned  snaik. 
When  he  was  all  ashore  he  glared  upon 
The  iland  with  approval,  but  was  soon 
"Astonished   with   the  view   and  lost  to  wonder" 

(from  Wats) 

(For  jest  then  he  began  to  see  the  Alegaiter) 
Being  a  nateral  enemy  of  his'n,  he  worked  hisself 
Into  a  fury,  also  a  ni  position. 


A   Nonsense  Anthology 

Before  the  Alegaiter  well  could  ope 
His  eye  (in  other  words  perceive  his  danger) 
The  Snaik  had  enveloped  his  body  just  19 
Times  with  "  foalds  voluminous  and  vast "  (from 

Milton) 

And  had  tore  off  several  scails  in  the  confusion, 
Besides  squeazing  him  awfully  into  his  stomoc. 
Just  then,  by  a  fortinate  turn  in  his  affairs, 
He  ceazed  into  his  mouth  the  careless  tale 
Of  the  unreflecting  water-snaik  !   Grown  desperate 
He,  finding  that  his  tale  was  fast  squesed 
Terrible  while  they  roaled  all  over  the  iland. 

It  was  a  well-conduckt«d  Affair ;  no  noise 
Disturbed  the  harmony  of  the  seen,  ecsept 
Onct  when  a  Willow  was  snaped  into  by  the  roaling. 
Eeach  of  the  combatence  hadn't  a  minit  for  holering. 
So  the  conflick  was  naterally  tremenjous  ! 
But  soon  by  grate  force  the  tail  was  bit  complete- 
Ly  of;  but  the  eggzeration  was  too  much 
For  his  delicate  Constitootion ;  he  felt  a  compres- 
sion 

Onto  his  chest  and  generally  over  his  body ; 
When  he  ecspressed  his  breathing,  it  was  with 
Grate  difficulty  that  he  felt  inspired  again  onct  more. 
Of  course  this  state  must  suffer  a  revolootion. 
So  the  alegaiter  give  but  one  yel,  and  egspired. 
The  water-snaik  realed  hisself  off,  &  survay'd 
For  say  10  minits,  the  condition  of 
His  fo  :  then  wondering  what  made  his  tail  hurt, 
He  slowly  went  off  for  to  cool. 

J.  W,  Morris, 


A   Nonsense  Anthology 


OELESTIAL  apoley  which  Didest  inspire. 
^S  the  souls  of  burns  and  pop  with  sackred  fir. 
Kast  thy  Mantil  over  me  When  i  shal  sing, 
the  praiz  Of  A  sweat  flower  who  grows  in  spring 
Which  has  of  late  kome  under  the  Fokis. 
of  My  eyes.     It  is  called  a  krokis. 
Sweat  lovly  prety  littil  sweat  Thing, 
you  bloometh  before  The  lairicks  on  High  sing, 
thy  lefs  are  neithir  Red  Nor  yelly. 
but  Just  betwixt  the  two  you  hardy  felly. 

i  fear  youl  yet  be  Nippit  with  the  frost. 

As  Maney  a  one  has  known  to  there  kost. 

you  should  have  not  kome  out  in  such  a  hurrey. 

As  this  is  only  the  Month  of  Febrywurrey. 

and  you  may  expick  yet  Much  bad  wethir. 

when   all    your   blads  will  krunkil   up  like   Burnt 

leather. 

alas.     alas,     theres  Men  which  tries  to  rime, 
who  have  like  you  kome  out  befor  there  time. 
The  Moril  of  My  peese  depend  upon  it. 
is  good  so  here  i  End  my  odd  or  sonit. 

Anonymoui 


[146] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


SOME   VERSES   TO   SNAIX 

PRODIGGUS  reptile  !  long  and  skaly  kuss  ! 
You  are  the  dadrattedest  biggest  thing  I  ever 
Seed  that  cud  ty  itself  into  a  double  bo- 
Not,  and  cum  all  strate  again  in  a 
Minnit  or  so,  without  winkin  or  seemin 
To  experience  any  particular  pane 
In  the  diafram. 

Stoopenjus  inseck  !   marvelous  annimile  ! 
You  are  no  doubt  seven  thousand  yeres 
Old,  and  hav  a  considerable  of  a 
Family  sneekin  round  thru  the  tall 
Gras  in  Africa,  a  eetin  up  little  greezy 
Niggers,  and  wishin  they  was  biggir. 

I  wonder  how  big  yu  was  when  yu 
Was  a  inphant  about  2  fete  long.     I 
Expec  yu  was  a  purty  good  size,  and 
Lived  on  phrogs,  and  lizzerds,  and  polly- 
Wogs  and  sutch  things. 

You  are  havin'  a  nice  time  now,  ennyhow  — 
Don't  have  nothing  to  do  but  lay  oph. 
And  etc  kats  and  rabbits,  and  stic 
Out  yure  tung  and  twist  yur  tale. 
I  wunder  if  yu  ever  swollered  a  man 
Without  takin  oph  his  butes.     If  there  was 
Brass  buttins  on  his  kote,  I  sposc 
[•47] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Yu  had  ter  swaller  a  lot  of  buttin- 

Wholes,  and  a  shu-hamer  to  nock 

The  soals  oph  of  the  boots  and  drive  in 

The  tax,  so  that  they  would  n't  kut  yure 

Inside.     I  wunder  if  vittles  taste 

Good  all  the  way  down.      I  expec  so  — 

At  leest,  fur  6  or  7  fete. 

You  are  so  mighty  long,  I  shud  thynk 
If  your  tale  was  kold,  yure  hed 
Woodent  no  it  till  the  next  day, 
But  it  's  hard  tu  tell :  snaix  is  snaix. 


Anonymoui> 


A   GREAT   MAN 

YE  muses,  pour  the  pitying  tear 
For  Pollio  snatch'd  away  : 
For  had  he  liv'd  another  year ! 

—  He  had  not  dy'd  to-day. 

O,  were  he  born  to  bless  mankind, 

In  virtuous  times  of  yore, 
Heroes  themselves  had  fallen  behind ! 

—  Whene'er  he  went  before. 

How  sad  the  groves  and  plains  appear, 

And  sympathetic  sheep : 
Even  pitying  hills  would  drop  a  tear ! 

—  If  hills  could  learn  to  weep. 

[148] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

His  bounty  in  exalted  strain 

Each  bard  might  well  display  : 
Since  none  implor'd  relief  in  vain  ! 

—  That  went  reliev'd  away. 

And  hark  !   I  hear  the  tuneful  throng  ; 

His  obsequies  forbid. 
He  still  shall  live,  shall  live  as  long 

—  As  ever  dead  man  did. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


AN  ELEGY 

On  the  Glory  of  her  Sex,  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize 

GOOD  people  all,  with  one  accord, 
Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word  - 
From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  pass'd  her  door, 
And  always  found  her  kind ; 

She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor  — 
Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighborhood  to  please 
With  manners  wondrous  winning ; 

And  never  follow'd  wicked  ways — - 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

[  '49  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size, 
She  never  slumber'd  in  her  pew  — 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 

By  twenty  beaux  and  more ; 
The  King  himself  has  follow'd  her  — 

When  she  has  walk'd  before. 

But  now,  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 

Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all  j 
The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead  — 

Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament,  in  sorrow  sore, 

For  Kent  Street  well  may  say, 
That  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more  — 

She  had  not  died  to-day. 

Oliver  Goldsmif- 


PARSON  GRAY 

A  QUIET  home  had  Parson  Gray, 
Secluded  in  a  vale ; 
His  daughters  all  were  feminine, 
And  all  his  sons  were  male. 

How  faithfully  did  Parson  Gray 
The  bread  of  life  dispense  — 

Well  "  posted  "  in  theology, 
And  post  and  rail  his  fence. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

'Gainst  all  the  vices  of  the  age 

He  manfully  did  battle  ; 
His  chickens  were  a  biped  breed, 

And  quadruped  his  cattle. 

No  clock  more  punctually  went, 

He  ne'er  delayed  a  minute  — 
Nor  ever  empty  was  his  purse, 

When  he  had  money  in  it. 

His  piety  was  ne'er  denied ; 

His  truths  hit  saint  and  sinner; 
At  morn  he  always  breakfasted ; 

He  always  dined  at  dinner. 

He  ne'er  by  any  luck  was  grieved, 

By  any  care  perplexed  — 
No  filcher  he,  though  when  he  preached, 

He  always  "  took  "  a  text. 

As  faithful  characters  he  drew 

As  mortal  ever  saw  ; 
But  ah  !  poor  parson  !  when  he  died, 

His  breath  he  could  not  draw ! 

Oliver  Goldsm  it  I 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  Ol 
A  MAD  DOG 

GOOD  people  all,  of  every  sort, 
Give  ear  unto  my  song ; 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, — 
It  cannot  hold  you  long. 
[IS'  ] 


Nonsense   Anthology 


In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran,  — 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 
To  comfort  friends  and  foes  ; 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad,  — 
When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

The  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends  ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets, 
The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye  ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied ; 

The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE  WONDERFUL   OLD   MAN 

r  1  ^HERE  was  an  old  man 

Who  lived  on  a  common 
And,  if  fame  speaks  true, 
He  was  born  of  a  woman. 
Perhaps  you  will  laugh, 

But  for  truth  I  've  been  told 
He  once  was  an  infant 
Tho'  age  made  him  old. 

Whene'er  he  was  hungry 

He  longed  for  some  meat ; 
And  if  he  could  get  it 

'T  was  said  he  would  eat. 
When  thirsty  he'd  drink 

If  you  gave  him  a  pot, 
And  what  he  drank  mostly 

Ran  down  his  throat. 

He  seldom  or  never 

Could  see  without  light, 
And  yet  I  've  been  told  he 

Could  hear  in  the  night. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

He  has  oft  been  awake 
In  the  daytime,  't  is  said, 

And  has  fallen  asleep 
As  he  lay  in  his  bed. 

'T  is  reported  his  tongue 

Always  moved  when  he  talk'd, 
And  he  stirred  both  his  arms 

And  his  legs  when  he  walk'd; 
And  his  gait  was  so  odd 

Had  you  seen  him  you  'd  burst, 
For  one  leg  or  t'  other 

Would  always  be  first. 

His  face  was  the  drollest 

That  ever  was  seen, 
For  if  't  was  not  washed 

It  seldom  was  clean ; 
His  teeth  he  expos'd  when 

He  happened  to  grin, 
And  his  mouth  stood  across 

'Twixt  his  nose  and  his  chin. 

When  this  whimsical  chap 

Had  a  river  to  pass, 
If  he  could  n't  get  over 

He  stayed  where  he  was. 
'T  is  said  he  ne'er  ventured 

To  quit  the  dry  ground, 
Yet  so  great  was  his  luck 

He  never  was  drowned. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

At  last  he  fell  sick, 

As  old  chronicles  tell, 
And  then,  as  folks  say, 

He  was  not  very  well. 
But  what  was  as  strange 

In  so  weak  a  condition, 
As  he  could  not  give  fees 

He  could  get  no  physician. 

What  wonder  he  died  ! 

Yet  't  is  said  that  his  death 
Was  occasioned  at  last 

By  the  loss  of  his  breath. 
But  peace  to  his  bones 

Which  in  ashes  now  moulder. 
Had  he  lived  a  day  longer 

He  'd  have  been  a  day  older. 

Anonymous. 


A   CHRONICLE 

NCE  —  but  no  matter  when  — 

There  lived  —  no  matter  where 
A  man,  whose  name  —  but  then 
I  need  not  that  declare. 


0 


He  —  well,  he  had  been  born, 
And  so  he  was  alive  ; 

His  age  —  I  details  scorn  — 
Was  somethingty  and  five. 
[155] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

He  lived  —  how  many  years 

I  truly  can't  decide  ; 
But  this  one  fact  appears 

He  lived  —  until  he  died. 


"  He  died,"  I  have  averred, 
But  cannot  prove  't  was  so, 

But  that  he  was  interred, 
At  any  rate,  I  know. 

I  fancy  he  'd  a  son, 
I  hear  he  had  a  wife  : 

Perhaps  he  'd  more  than  one, 
I  know  not,  on  my  life  ! 

But  whether  he  was  rich, 
Or  whether  he  was  poor, 

Or  neither — both  — or  which, 
I  cannot  say,  I  'm  sure. 

I  can't  recall  his  name, 
Or  what  he  used  to  do  : 

But  then  —  well,  such  is  fame  ! 
'T  will  so  serve  me  and  you. 

And  that  is  why  I  thus, 
About  this  unknown  man 

Would  fain  create  a  fuss, 
To  rescue,  if  I  can. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

From  dark  oblivion's  blow, 

Some  record  of  his  lot : 
But,  ah  !   I  do  not  know 

Who  —  where  —  when  —  why  —  or  what. 

MORAL 

In  this  brief  pedigree 

A  moral  we  should  find  — 
But  what  it  ought  to  be 

Has  quite  escaped  my  mind ! 

Anonymous. 


ON   THE   OXFORD   CARRIER 


H 


ERE  lieth  one,  who  did  most  truly  prove 
That   he   could  never   die  while   he  could 

move; 

So  hung  his  destiny  never  to  rot 
While  he  might  still  jog  on  and  keep  his  trot ; 
Made  of  sphere  metal,  never  to  decay 
Until  his  revolution  was  at  stay. 
Time  numbers  motion,  yet  (without  a  crime 
'Gainst  old  truth)  motion  number'd  out  his  time, 
And  like  an  engine  moved  with  wheel  and  weight, 
His  principles  being  ceased,  he  ended  straight. 
Rest,  that  gives  all  men  life,  gave  him  his  death, 
And  too  much  breathing  put  him  out  of  breath  ; 
Nor  were  it  contradiction  to  affirm, 
Too  long  vacation  hasten'd  on  his  term. 
[157] 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 

Merely  to  drive  the  time  away  he  sicken'd, 
Fainted,  and  died,  nor  would  with  ale  be  quicken'd  ; 
u  Nay,"  quoth  he,  on  his  swooning  bed  outstretch'd, 
u  If  I  may  n't  carry,  sure  I  '11  ne'er  be  fetch'd, 
But  vow,  though  the  cross  doctors  all  stood  hearers, 
For  one  carrier  put  down  to  make  six  bearers." 
Ease  was  his  chief  disease;  and  to  judge  right, 
He  died  for  heaviness  that  his  cart  went  light : 
His  leisure  told  him  that  his  time  was  come, 
And  lack  of  load  made  his  life  burdensome. 
That  even  to  his  la^e  breath  (there  be  that  say't), 
As   he   were   press'd    to    death,   he   cried,   "  More 

weight ;  " 

But,  had  his  doings  lasted  as  they  were, 
He  had  been  an  immortal  carrier. 
Obedient  to  the  moon  he  spent  his  date 
In  course  reciprocal,  and  had  his  fate 
Link'd  to  the  mutual  flowing  of  the  seas, 
Yet  (strange  to  think)  his  wane  was  his  increase: 
His  letters  are  deliver'd  all,  and  gone, 
Only  remains  the  superscription. 

John  Milton, 


NEPHELIDIA 

FROA4  the  depth  of  the  dreamy  decline  of  the 
dawn  through  a  notable  nimbus  of 
nebulous  noonshine, 

Pallid  and  pink  as  the  palm  of  the  flag-flower  that 
flickers  with  fear  of  the  flies  as  they  float, 

C's«] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Are  they  looks  of  our  lovers  that  lustrously  lean 

from  a  marvel  of  mystic  miraculous  moon- 
shine, 
These  that  we  feel  in   the  blood  of  our  blushes 

that  thicken  and  threaten  with  sobs   from 

the  throat  ? 
Thicken  and  thrill  as  a  theatre  thronged  at  appeal 

of  an  actor's  appalled  agitation, 
Fainter  with  fear  of  the  fires  of  the  future  than 

pale  with  the  promise  of  pride  in  the  past ; 
Flushed  with  the   famishing  fulness  of  fever  that 

reddens  with  radiance  of  rathe  recreation, 
Gaunt  as    the   ghastliest   of  glimpses   that  gleam 

through  the  gloom  of  the  gloaming  when 

ghosts  go  aghast  ? 

Nay,  for  the  nick  of  the  tick  of  the  time  is  a  trem- 
ulous touch  on  the  temples  of  terror, 
Strained  as  the  sinews  yet  strenuous  with  strife  of 

the  dead  who  is  dumb  as  the  dust-heaps  of 

death  : 
Surely  no  soul   is  it,  sweet  as  the  spasm  of  erotic 

emotional  exquisite  error, 
Bathed  in  the  balms  of  beatified  bliss,  beatific  itself 

by  beatitude's  breath. 
Surely  no  spirit  or  sense  of  a  soul  that  was  soft  to 

the  spirit  and  soul  of  our  senses 
Sweetens  the  stress  of  suspiring  suspicion  that  sobs 

in  the  semblance  and  sound  of  a  sigh  ; 
Only    this    oracle   opens    Olympian,   in    mystical 

moods  and  triangular  tenses  — 
Life  is  the  lust  of  a  lamp  for  the  light  that  is  dark 

till  the  dawn  of  the  day  when  we  die. 
['59] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Mild  is  the  mirk  and  monotonous  music  of  mem- 
ory melodiously  mute  as  it  may  be, 

While  the  hope  in  the  heart  of  a  hero  is  bruised 
by  the  breach  of  men's  rapiers  resigned  to 
the  rod  ; 

Made  meek  as  a  mother  whose  bosom-beats  bound 
with  the  bliss-bringing  bulk  of  a  balm- 
breathing  baby, 

As  they  grope  through  the  grave -yards  of  creeds, 
under  skies  growing  green  at  a  groan  for 
the  grimness  of  God. 

Blank  is  the  book  of  his  bounty  beholden  of  old 
and  its  binding  is  blacker  than  bluer  : 

Out  of  blue  into  black  is  the  scheme  of  the  skies, 
and  their  dews  are  the  wine  of  the  blood- 
shed of  things; 

Till  the  darkling  desire  of  delight  shall  be  free 
as  a  fawn  that  is  freed  from  the  fangs  that 
pursue  her, 

Till  the  heart-beats  of  hell  shall  be  hushed  by 
a  hymn  from  the  hunt  that  has  harried  the 
kernel  of  kings. 

A.  C.  Swinburne, 

in  "  The  Hcptalogia." 


MARTIN   LUTHER   AT   POTSDAM 

WHAT  lightning  shall  light  it  ?    What  thun- 
der shall  tell  it  ? 
In  the  height  of  the  height,  in  the  depth 
of  the  deep  ? 
[160] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Shall  the  sea-storm   declare  it,  or  paint  it,  or  smell 

it? 
Shall    the  price   of   a    slave    be    its   treasure  to 

keep  ? 
When  the  night  has  grown  near  with  the  gems  on 

her  bosom, 
When  the  white  of  mine  eyes  is  the  whiteness 

of  snow, 
When  the  cabman  —  in  liquor  —  drives  a  blue  roan, 

a  kicker, 
Into  the  land  of  the  dear  long  ago. 

Ah  !  —  Ah,  again  !  —  You  will  come  to  me,  fall 

on  me  — 

You  are  so  heavy,  and  I  am  so  flat. 
And  I  ?     I  shall  not  be  at  home  when  you  call  on 

me, 
But    stray   down    the  wind   like   a   gentleman's 

hat: 

I  shall  list  to  the  stars  when  the  music  is  purple, 
Be   drawn    through    a    pipe,    and    exhaled    into 

rings; 
Turn  to  sparks,  and  then  straightway  get  stuck  in 

the  gateway 

That   stands   between  speech  and    unspeakable 
things. 

As  I  mentioned  before,  by  what  light  is  it  lighted  ? 

Oh  !   Is  it  fourpence,  or  piebald,  or  gray  ? 
Is  it  a  mayor  that  a  mother  has  knighted, 

Or  is  it  a  horse  of  the  sun  and  the  day  ? 
[»]  [161] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Is  it  a  pony  ?      If  so,  who  will  change  it  ? 

O  golfer,  be  quiet,  and  mark  where  it  scuds, 
And  think  of  its  paces  —  of  owners  and  races  — 

Relinquish  the  links  for  the  study  of  studs. 

Not  understood  ?     Take    me    hence !     Take  me 

yonder ! 

Take  me  away  to  the  land  of  my  rest  — 
There  where  the  Ganges  and  other  gees  wander, 

And  uncles  and  antelopes  act  for  the  best, 
And  all  things  are  mixed  and  run  into  each  other 

In  a  violet  twilight  of  virtues  and  sins, 
With  the  church-spires  below  you  and  no  one  to 

show  you 

Where  the  curate  leaves  off"  and  the  pew-rent 
begins  ! 

In  the  black  night    through    the    rank    grass  the 
snakes  peer  — 

The  cobs  and  the  cobras  are  partial  to  grass  -i- 
And  a  boy  wanders  out    with    a    knowledge    of 
Shakespeare 

That 's  not  often  found  in  a  boy  of  his  class, 
And  a  girl  wanders  out  without  any  knowledge, 

And  a  bird  wanders  out,  and  a  cow  wanders  out, 
Likewise  one  wether,  and  they  wander  together  — 

There  's  a  good  deal  of  wandering  lying  about. 

But  it 's  all  for  the  best ;   I  've  been  told  by  my 

friends,  Sir, 

That    in   verses   I  'd   written  the  meaning  was 
slight  j 

[162] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

I  've  tried  with  no  meaning — to  make  'em  amends, 
Sir  — 

And  find  that  this  kind  's  still  more  easy  to  write. 
The  title  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  verses, 

But  think  of  the  millions  —  the  laborers  who 
In  busy  employment  find  deepest  enjoyment, 

And  yet,  like  my  title,  have  nothing  to  do ! 

Barry   Pain. 


COMPANIONS 


I   KNOW  not  of  what  we  ponder'd 
Or  made  pretence  to  talk, 
As,  her  hand  within  mine,  we  wander'd 
Tow'rd  the  pool  by  the  limetree  walk, 
While  the  dew  fell  in  showers  from  the 

flowers 
And  the  blush-rose  bent  on  her  stalk. 

I  cannot  recall  her  figure  : 

Was  it  regal  as  Juno's  own  ? 
Or  only  a  trifle  bigger 

Than  the  elves  who  surround  the  throne 
Of  the  Faery  Queen,  and  are  seen,  I  ween, 

By  mortals  in  dreams  alone  ? 

What  her  eyes  were  like,  I  know  not : 

Perhaps  they  were  blurred  with  tears ; 
And  perhaps  in  your  skies  there  glow  not 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

(On  the  contrary)  clearer  spheres. 
No  !   as  to  her  eyes  I  am  just  as  wise 
As  you  or  the  cat,  my  dears. 

Her  teeth,  I  presume,  were  u  pearly  "  : 
But  which  was  she,  brunette  or  blonde  ? 

Her  hair,  was  it  quaintly  curly, 

Or  as  straight  as  a  beadle's  wand  ? 

That  I  failed  to  remark  ;  —  it  wis  rather  dark 
And  shadowy  round  the  pond. 

Then  the  hand  that  reposed  so  snugly 

In  mine  —  was  it  plump  or  spare? 
Was  the  countenance  fair  or  ugly  ? 

Nay,  children,  you  have  me  there ! 
My  eyes  were  p'raps  blurr'd  ;  and  besides,  I  'd  heard 

That  it 's  horribly  rude  to  stare. 

And  I  —  was  I  brusque  and  surly  ? 

Or  oppressively  bland  and  fond  ? 
Was  I  partial  to  rising  early  ? 

Or  why  did  we  twain  abscond, 
All  breakfastless  too,  from  the  public  view 

To  prowl  by  a  misty  pond  ? 

What  passed,  what  was  felt  or  spoken  — 

Whether  anything  passed  at  all  — 
And  whether  the  heart  was  broken 

That  beat  under  that  sheltering  shawl  — 
(If  shawl  she  had  on,  which  I  doubt)  —  has  gone. 

Yes,  gone  from  me  past  recall. 
[164] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Was  I  haply  the  lady's  suitor? 

Or  her  uncle  ?     I  can't  make  out  — 
Ask  your  governess,  dears,  or  tutor. 

For  myself,  I  'm  in  hopeless  doubt 
As  to   why  we  were  there,  and  who  on  earth  we 
were, 

And  what  this  is  all  about. 

C.  S.  Caherley. 


THE   COCK   AND   THE   BULL 


YOU  see  this  pebble-stone  ?      It 's  a  thing  I 
bought 
Of  a  bit  of  a  chit  of  a  boy  i'  the  mid  o'  the 

day  — 

I  like  to  dock  the  smaller  parts-o-speech, 
As  we  curtail  the  already  cur-tailed  cur 
(You  catch  the  paronomasia,  play  'po'  words  ?) 
Did,  rather,  i'  the  pre-Landseerian  days. 
Well,  to  my  muttons.      I  purchased  the  concern. 
And  clapt  it  i'  my  poke,  having  given  for  same 
By  way  o'  chop,  swop,  barter  or  exchange  — 
"Chop  "  was  my  snickering  dandiprat's  own  term  — 
One   shilling   and    fourpence,  current  coin  o'   the 

realm. 

O-n-e  one  and  f-o-u-r  four 

Pence,   one    and    fourpence  —  you    are    with    me, 
sir  ?  — 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

What  hour  it  skills  not :  ten  or  eleven  o'  the  clock, 
One  day  (and  what  a  roaring  day  it  was 
Go  shop  or  sight-see  —  bar  a  spit  o'  rain  !  ) 
In  February,  eighteen  sixty  nine, 
Alexandrina  Victoria,  Fidei, 

Hm  —  hm  —  how  runs  the  jargon  ?  being  on  thfe 
throne. 

Such,  sir,  are  all  the  facts,  succinctly  put, 

The  basis  or  substratum  —  what  you  will  — 

Of  the  impending  eighty  thousand  lines. 

"  Not  much  in  'em  either,"  quoth  perhaps  simple 

Hodge. 
But  there  's  a  superstructure.     Wait  a  bit. 

Mark  first  the  rationale  of  the  thing  : 

Hear  logic  rivel  and  levigate  the  deed. 

That  shilling  —  and  for  matter  o'  that,  the  pence  — 

I  had  o'  course  upo'  me  — wi'  me  say  — 

(Mecum  's  the  Latin,  make  a  note  o'  that) 

When  I  popp'd  pen   i'  stand,  scratched  ear,  wiped 

snout, 

(Let  everybody  wipe  his  own  himself) 
Sniff'd  —  tch  ! — at  snuffbox;  tumbled  up, he-heed, 
Haw-haw'd  (not    he-haw'd,  that 's    another  guess 

thing) : 

Then  fumbled  at,  and  stumbled  out  of,  door, 
I  shoved  the  timber  ope  wi'  my  omoplat ; 
And  in  vestibulo,  i'  the  lobby  to-wit, 
(lacobi  Facciolati's  rendering,  sir,) 
Donned  galligaskins,  antigropeloes, 
[166] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  so  forth  ;  and,  complete  with  hat  and  gloves, 
One  on  and  one  a-dangle  i'  my  hand, 
And  ombrifuge  (Lord  love  you  ! )  cas  o'  rain, 
I  flopped  forth,  'sbuddikins  !   on  my  own  ten  toes, 
(I  do  assure  you  there  be  ten  of  them) 
And  went  clump-clumping  up  hill  and  down  dale 
To  find  myself  o'  the  sudden  i'  front  o'  the  boy. 
Put  case  I  had  n't  'em  on  me,  could  I  ha'  bought 
This  sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call-toy, 
This  pebble-thing,  o'  the  boy-thing  ?      Q^  E.  D. 
That 's  proven  without  aid  for  mumping  Pope, 
Sleek  porporate  or  bloated  cardinal. 
(Is  n't  it,  old  Fatchops  ?     You  're  in  Euclid  now.) 
So,  having  the  shilling  —  having  i'  fact  a  lot  — 
And  pence  and  halfpence,  ever  so  many  o'  them, 
I  purchased,  as  I  think  I  said  before, 
The  pebble  (lapis,  lapidis,  di,  dem,  de  — 
What   nouns   'crease   short    i'    the   genitive,    Fat- 
chops,  eh  ? ) 

O  the  boy,  a  bare-legg'd  beggarly  son  of  a  gun, 
For  one-and-fourpence.      Here  we  are  again. 
Now  Law  steps  in,  biwigged,  voluminous-jaw'd  ; 
Investigates  and  re-investigates. 
Was  the  transaction  illegal  ?      Law  shakes  head. 
Perpend,  sir,  all  the  bearings  of  the  case. 


At  first  the  coin  was  mine,  the  chattel  his. 

But  now  (by  virtue  of  the  said  exchange 

And  barter)  vice  versa  all  the  coin, 

Rer  juris  operationem,  vests 

I'  the  boy  and  his  assigns  till  ding  o'  doom  ; 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

In  s&cula  sacuh-o-o-orum  ; 
(I  think  I  hear  the  Abate  mouth  out  that.) 
Xo  have  and  hold  the  same  to  him  and  them   .   .   . 
Confer  some  idiot  on  Conveyancing. 
Whereas  the  pebble  and  every  part  thereof, 
And  all  that  appertaineth  thereunto, 
Quodcunque  pertinet  ad  em  rem, 
/(I  fancy,  sir,  my  Latin  's  rather  pat) 
Or  shall,  will,  may,  might,  can,  could,  would,  or 

should, 

Subaudi  cetera  —  clap  we  to  the  close  — 
For  what 's  the  good  of  law  in  such  a  case  o'  the 

kind 

Is  mine  to  all  intents  and  purposes. 
This  settled,  I  resume  the  thread  o'  the  tale. 

Now  for  a  touch  o'  the  vendor's  quality. 
He  says  a  gen'lman  bought  a  pebble  of  him, 
(This    pebble  i'   sooth,  sir,  which  I  hold    i'    my 

hand)  — 

And  paid  for  't,  like  a  gen'lman,  on  the  nail. 
"  Did  I  o'ercharge  him  a  ha'penny  ?      Devil  a  bit. 
Fiddlepin's  end  !      Get  out,  you  blazing  ass  ! 
Gabble  o'  the  goose.      Don't  bugaboo-baby  me  f 
Go  double  or  quits  ?      Yah  !    tittup  !    what  's  the 

odds  ? " 
—  There  's  the  transaction  viewed  in  the  vendor's 

light- 
Next  ask  that  dumpled  hag,  stood  snuffling  by, 
With  her  three  frowsy  blowsy  brats  o'  babes, 
'[  1 68  ] 


A    Nonsense    Anthology 

The  scum  o'  the  Kennel,  cream  o'  the  filth-heap  — 

Faugh  ! 

Aie,  aie,  aie,  aie  !  OTOTOTOTOTOI, 
('Stead  which  we  blurt  out,  Hoighty  toighty  now)  — 
And  the  baker  and  candlestick  maker,  and  Jack 

and  Gill, 

Blear'd  Goody  this  and  queasy  Gaffer  that, 
Ask  the  Schoolmaster,  Take  Schoolmaster  first. 
He  saw  a  gentleman  purchase  of  a  lad 
A  stone,  and  pay  for  it  rite  on  the  square, 
And  carry  it  off  per  saltum,  jauntily 
Propria  quce  maribus,  gentleman's  property  now 
(Agreeable  to  the  law  explained  above). 
In  proprium  usurn,  for  his  private  ends, 
The  boy  he  chucked  a  brown  i'  the  air,  and  bit 
I'  the  face  the  shilling  ;   heaved  a  thumping  stone 
At  a  lean  hen  that  ran  cluck-clucking  by, 
(And  hit  her,  dead  as  nail  i'  post  o'  door,) 
Then  ablit  —  What 's  the  Ciceronian  phrase  ? 
Excessit,  evasit)  erupit  —  off  slogs  boy  ; 
Off  like  bird,  avi  similis  —  (you  observed 
The  dative  ?     Pretty  i'  the  Mantuan  !  )  — Angllce 
Off  in  three  flea  skips.      Hactenus,  so  far, 
So  good,  tain  bene.      Bene,  satis,  male,  — 
Where  was  I  with  my  trope  'bout  one  in  a  quag  ? 
I  did  once  hitch  the  Syntax  into  verse 
Verbum  personate^  a  verb  personal, 
Concordat  —  ay,"  agrees,"  old  Fatchops  —  cum 
Nominativo,  with  its  nominative, 
Genere,  i'  point  of  gender,  numet  o, 
O'  number,  et  persona,  and  person.      L/jf, 
Instance  :   Sol  ruit,  down  flops  sun,  et  and, 
[169] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Mantes  umbrantur,  out  flounce  mountains.      Pah  ! 
Excuse  me,  sir,  I  think  I  'm  going  mad. 

You  see  the  trick  on't,  though,  and  can  yourself 

Continue  the  discourse  ad  libitum. 

It  takes  up  about  eighty  thousand  lines, 

A  thing  imagination  boggles  at  ; 

And  might,  odds-bobs,  sir  !   in  judicious  hands 

Extend  from  here  to  Mesopotamy. 

C.  S.  Calverley. 


LOVERS   AND   A   REFLECTION 


IN  moss-prankt  dells  which  the  sunbeams  flatter 
(And   heaven   it  knoweth    what    that    may 
mean  ; 
Meaning,  however,  is  no  great  matter) 

Where  woods  are  a-tremble  with  words  a-tween  ; 

Thro'  God's  own  heather  we  wonned  together, 
I  and  my  Willie  (O  love  my  love)  : 

I  need  hardly  remark  it  was  glorious  weather, 
And  flitter-bats  wavered  alow,  above  : 

Boats  were  curtseying,  rising,  bowing, 
(Boats  in  that  climate  are  so  polite,) 

And  sands  were  a  ribbon  of  green  endowing, 
And  O  the  sun-dazzle  on  bark  and  bight ! 


A   Nonsense    Anthology 

Thro'  the  rare  red  heather  we  danced  together 
(O  love  my  Willie,)  and  smelt  for  flowers  : 

I  must  mention  again  it  was  glorious  weather, 
Rhymes  are  so  scarce  in  this  world  of  ours  : 

By  rises  that  flushed  with  their  purple  favors, 
Thro'  becks  that  brattled  o'er  grasses  sheen, 

We  walked  or  waded,  we  two  young  shavers, 
Thanking  our  stars  we  were  both  so  green. 

We  journeyed  in  parallels,  I  and  Willie, 
In  fortunate  parallels  !      Butterflies, 

Hid  in  weltering  shadows  of  daffodilly 

Or  marjoram,  kept  making  peacock  eyes  : 

Song-birds  darted  about,  some  inky 

As  coal,  some  snowy  (I  ween)  as  curds  ; 

Or  rosy  as  pinks,  or  as  roses  pinky  — 

They  reek  of  no  eerie  To-come,  those  birds  ! 

But  they  skim  over  bents  which  the  mill-stream 
washes, 

Or  hang  in  the  lift  'neath  a  white  cloud's  hem  ; 
They  need  no  parasols,  no  goloshes  ; 

And  good  Mrs.  Trimmer  she  feedeth  them. 

Then  we  thrid  God's  cowslips  (as  erst  his  heather), 
That  endowed  the  wan  grass  with  their  golden 
blooms ; 

And  snapt —  (it  was  perfectly  charming  weather)  — 
Our  fingers  at  Fate  and  her  goddess-glooms : 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And    Willie    'gan    sing  —  (Oh,    his     notes    were 

fluty; 
Wafts  fluttered  them  out  to  the  white-winged 

sea)  — 
Something    made  up  of   rhymes   that    have    done 

much  duty, 
Rhymes  (better  to  put  it)  of  "  ancientry  "  : 

Bowers  of  flowers  encountered  showers 

In  William's  carol  —  (O  love  my  Willie  !) 

Then    he    bade    sorrow    borrow    from    blithe    to- 
morrow 
I  quite  forget  what  —  say  a  daffodilly. 

A  nest  in  a  hollow,  "  with  buds  to  follow," 
I  think  occurred  next  in  his  nimble  strain; 

And  clay  that  was  "  kneaden  "  of  course  in  Eden  — 
A  rhyme  most  novel  I  do  maintain  : 

Mists,  bones,  the  singer  himself,  love-stories, 
And  all  least  furlable  things  got  furled  ; 

Not  with  any  design  to  conceal  their  glories, 
But  simply  and  solely  to  rhyme  with  world. 

O  if  billows  and  pillows  and  hours  and  flowers, 
And  all  the  brave  rhymes  of  an  elder  day, 

Could  be  furled  together,  this  genial  weather, 
And  carted  or  carried  on  wafts  away, 

Nor  ever  again  trotted  out  — ah  me  ! 

How  much  fewer  volumes  of  verse  there  'd  be. 

C.  S.  Ca  far  fey. 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 


AN  IMITATION  OF  WORDSWORTH 


THERE  is  a  river  clear  and  fair, 
'T  is  neither  broad  nor  narrow 
It  winds  a  little  here  and  there  — 
It  winds  about  like  any  hare ; 
And  then  it  takes  as  straight  a  course 
As  on  the  turnpike  road  a  horse, 
Or  through  the  air  an  arrow. 


The  trees  that  grow  upon  the  shore, 
Have  grown  a  hundred  years  or  more; 

So  long  there  is  no  knowing. 
Old  Daniel  Dobson  does  not  know 
When  first  these  trees  began  to  grow  ; 
But  still  they  grew,  and  grew,  and  grew, 
As  if  they  'd  nothing  else  to  do, 
But  ever  to  be  growing. 


The  impulses  of  air  and  sky 

Have  rear'd  their  stately  heads  so  high, 

And  clothed  their  boughs  with  green  ; 
Their  leaves  the  dews  of  evening  quaff, — 

And  when  the  wind  blows  loud  and  keen, 
I  've  seen  the  jolly  timbers  laugh, 

And  shake  their  sides  with  merry  glee  — 

Wagging  their  heads  in  mockery. 
[173] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Fix'd  are  their  feet  in  solid  earth, 

Where  winds  can  never  blow ; 
But  visitings  of  deeper  birth 

Have  reach'd  their  roots  below. 
For  they  have  gain'd  the  river's  brink, 
And  of  the  living  waters  drink. 

There  's  little  Will,  a  five  years  child  — 

He  is  my  youngest  boy  : 
To  look  on  eyes  so  fair  and  wild, 

It  is  a  very  joy  :  — 

He  hath  conversed  with  sun  and  shower, 
And  dwelt  with  every  idle  flower, 

As  fresh  and  gay  as  them. 
He  loiters  with  the  briar  rose, — 
The  blue-belles  are  his  play-fellows, 

That  dance  upon  their  slender  stem. 

And  I  have  said,  my  little  Will, 
Why  should  not  he  continue  still 

A  thing  of  Nature's  rearing  ? 
A  thing  beyond  the  world's  control  — 
A  living  vegetable  soul,  — 

No  human  sorrow  fearing. 

It  were  a  blessed  sight  to  see 
That  child  become  a  Willow-tree, 

His  brother  trees  among. 
He  'd  be  four  times  as  tall  as  me, 

And  live  three  times  as  long. 

Catharine  M.  Fanshawe. 


A   Nonsense  Anthology 

THE    FAMOUS    BALLAD    OF    THE 
JUBILEE   CUP 

YOU  may  lift  me  up  in  your  arms,  lad,  and 
turn  my  face  to  the  sun, 
For  a  last  look  back  at  the  dear  old  track 

where  the  Jubilee  cup  was  won  ; 
And  draw  your  chair  to  my  side,  lad  —  no,  thank 

ye,  I  feel  no  pain  — • 

For  I  'm  going  out  with  the  tide,  lad;  but  1  '11  tell 
you  the  tale  again. 

I  'm   seventy-nine  or  nearly,  and  my   head  it  has 

long  turned  gray, 
But  it  all  comes  back  as  clearly  as  though  it  was 

yesterday  — 
The  dust,  and  the    bookies  shouting    around  the 

clerk  of  the  scales, 
And  the  clerk  of  the  course,  and  the  nobs  in  force, 

and  'Is  'Ighness  the  Pr**ce  of  W*les. 

'T  was  a  nine-hole  thresh  to  wind'ard  (but  none  of 

us  cared  for  that), 
With  a  straight  run  home  to  the  service  tee,  and  a 

finish  along  the  flat, 
"  Stiff?  "  ah,  well  you  may  say  it  !  Spot  barred,  and 

at  five  stone  ten  ! 
But  at  two  and  a  bisque  I  'd  ha'  run  the  risk  ;  for 

I  was  a  greenhorn  then. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

So  we  stripped  to  the   B.   Race  signal,  the  old  red 

swallowtail  — 
There  was  young  Ben  Bolt  and  the  Portland  Colt, 

and  Aston  Villa,  and  Yale ; 

And  W.  G.,  and  Steinitz,  Leander  and  The  Saint, 
And  the  G*rm*n  Emp*r*r's  Meteor,  a-looking  as 

fresh  as  paint ; 

John  Roberts  (scratch),  and  Safety  Match,    The 

Lascar,  and  Lorna  Doone, 
Oom  Paul  (a  bye),  and  Romany  Rye,  and  me  upon 

Wooden  Spoon  ; 
And  some  of  us  cut  for  partners,  and   some  of  us 

strung  for  baulk, 
And  some  of  us  tossed  for  stations — But  there, 

what  use  to  talk  ? 


Three-quarter-back  on  the   Kingsclere  crack  was 

station  enough  for  me, 
With  a  fresh  jackyarder  blowing  and  the  Vicarage 

goal  a-lee  ! 
And  I   leaned  and   patted   her  centre-bit  and  eased 

the  quid  in  her  cheek, 
With  a  "  Soh  my  lass  !  "  and  a  "  Woa  you  brute  !  " 

—  for  she  could  do  all  but  speak. 

She  was  geared  a  thought  too  high   perhaps ;  she 

was  trained  a  trifle  fine; 
But  she  had  the  grand  reach  forward  !   I  never  saw 

such  a  line  ! 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Smooth-bored,  clean  run,  from  her  fiddle  head  with 

its  dainty  ear  half-cock, 
Hard-bit,  pur  sang,  from   her  overhang  to  the  heel 

of  her  off  hind  sock. 


Sir  Robert  he  walked  beside   me  as  I  worked  her 

down  to  the  mark  ; 
"  There  's  money  on  this,  my  lad,"  said  he,  "  and 

most  of  'em  's  running  dark  ; 
But  ease  the  sheet   if  you  're  bunkered,  and  pack 

the  scrummages  tight, 
And  use  your  slide  at  the  distance,  and  we  '11  drink 

to  your  health  to-night  !  " 

But  I  bent  and  tightened  my  stretcher.      Said  I  to 

myself,  said  I  — 
"  John  Jones,  this   here  is  the   Jubilee  Cup,  and 

you  have  to  do  or  die." 
And  the  words  were  n't   hardly   spoken  when  the 

umpire  shouted  "  Play  !  " 
And  we  all  kicked  off  from  the  Gasworks  End  with 

a  "  Yoicks !  "  and  a  "  Gone  Away  ! " 

And  at  first  I  thought  of  nothing,  as  the  clay  flew 

by  in  lumps, 
But  stuck  to  the  old   Ruy   Lopez,  and   wondered 

who'd  call  for  trumps, 
And  luffed  her  close  to  the  cushion,  and  watched 

each  one  as  it  broke, 
And  in  triple  file  up  the  Rowley  Mile  we  went  like 

a  trail  of  smoke. 
['*]  [177] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

The    Lascar    made    the    running    but    he    did  n't 

amount   to  much, 
For  old    Oom    Paul  was  quick  on  the  ball,  and 

headed  it  back  to  touch  ; 
And  the  whole  first  flight  led  off  with  the  right  as 

The  Saint  took  up  the  pace, 
And    drove    it    clean    to    the    putting    green  and 

trumped   it  there  with  an  ace. 

John  Roberts  had  given  a  miss  in  baulk,  but  Villa 

cleared  with  a  punt ; 
And  keeping  her  service  hard  and  low  the  Meteor 

forged  to  the  front; 
With  Romany  Rye  to  windward  at  dormy  and  two 

to  play, 
And  Yale  close  up  —  but  a  Jubilee  Cup  is  n't  run 

for  every  day. 

We  laid  our  course  for  the  Warner  —  I  tell  you 
the  pace  was  hot ! 

And  again  off  Tattenham  Corner  a  blanket  covered 
the  lot. 

Check  side  !  Check  side  !  now  steer  her  wide  !  and 
barely  an  inch  of  room, 

With  The  Lascar's  tail  over  our  lee  rail  and  brush- 
ing Leander's  boom. 

We  were  running  as  strong  as  ever  —  eight  knots 

—  but  it  could  n't  last ; 
P'or  the  spray  and  the  bails  were  flying,  the  whole 

field  tailing  fast ; 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  the  Portland  Colt  had  shot  his  bolt,  and  Yale 

was  bumped  at  the  Doves, 
And  The  Lascar  resigned  to  Steinitz,  stalemated  in 

fifteen  moves. 

It   was    bellows  to   mend  with  Roberts  —  starred 

three  for  a  penalty  kick : 
But  he  chalked  his  cue  and  gave  'em  the  butt,  and 

Oom  Paul  marked  the  trick  — 
"  Offside  — No  Ball  — and  at  fourteen  all  !  Mark 

Cock  !  and  two  for  his  nob  !  " 
When  W.  G.  ran  clean  through  his   lee  and  beat 

him  twice  with  a  lob. 

He  yorked  him  twice  on  a  crumbling  pitch  and 

wiped  his  eye  with  a  brace, 
But  his  guy-rope  split  with  the  strain  of  it  and  he 

dropped  back  out  of  the  race ; 
And  I   drew  a  bead    on    the    Meteor's  lead,  and 

challenging  none  too  soon, 
Bent  over  and    patted    her    garboard    strake,  and 

called  upon  Wooden  Spoon. 

She  was  all  of  a  shiver  forward,  the  spoondrift  thick 

on  her  flanks, 
But  I  'd  brought  her  an   easy  gambit,  and  nursed 

her  over  the   banks ; 

She  answered  her  helm  —  the  darling !  and  woke 
up  now  with  a   rush, 

the  Meteor's  jock,  he  sat  like  a  rock  —  he 
knew  we  rode  for  his  brush  ! 
['79] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

There  was   no  one  else  left  in  it.     The  Saint  was 

using  his  whip, 
And    Safety    Match,    with    a    lofting    catch,   was 

pocketed  deep  at  slip  ; 
And  young   Ben  Bolt  with  his  niblick  took  miss  at 

Leander's  lunge, 
But  topped  the  net  with  the  ricochet,  and  Steinitz 

threw  up  the  sponge. 

But  none  of  the  lot  could  stop  the  rot  —  nay,  don't 

ask  me  to  stop  ! 
The  villa   had   called  for  lemons,  Oom  Paul  had 

taken  his  drop, 
And  both  were  kicking  the  referee.     Poor  fellow  ! 

he  done  his  best ; 
But,  being  in  doubt,  he  'd  ruled  them  out  —  which 

he  always  did  when  pressed. 

So,    inch    by    inch,  I   tightened    the    winch,  and 

chucked  the  sandbags  out  — 
I   heard    the    nursery    cannons    pop,  I    heard  the 

bookies  shout : 
"  The  Meteor  wins  !  "  "  No,  Wooden  Spoon  !  " 

"  Check  !  "  "  Vantage  !  "  "  Leg  Before  !  " 
"  Last  Lap  !  "  "  Pass  Nap  !  "  At  his  saddle-flap  I 

put  up  the  helm  and  wore. 

You  may  overlap  at  the    saddle-flap,  and    yet  be 

loo'd  on  the  tape  : 
And   it   all  depends   upon    changing  ends,    how   a 

seven-year-old   will  shape ; 
[  1 80] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

I»  jvas  tack  and  tack  to  the  Lepe  and  back  —  a  fair 

ding-dong  to  the  Ridge, 
And  he  led  by  his   forward  canvas  yet  as  we  shot 

'neath  Hammersmith  Bridge. 

He  led  by  his  forward   canvas — he  led  from  his 

strongest  suit  — 
But   along  we  went  on   a  roaring   scent,   and   at 

Fawley  I  gained  a  foot. 
He  fisted  off  with  his  jigger,  and  gave  me  his  wash 

—  too  late  ! 
Deuce  —  Vantage  —  Check  !      By  neck  and  neck 

we  rounded  into  the  straight. 

I  could  hear  the  "  Conquering  'Ero  "  a-crashing  on 

Godfrey's  band, 
And  my  hopes  fell  sudden  to  zero,  just  there,  with 

the  race  in  hand  — 
In  sight  of  the  Turf's  Blue  Ribbon,  in  sight  of  the 

umpire's  tape, 
As  I   felt  the  tack  of  her  spinnaker  c-rack  !   as  I 

heard  the  steam  escape  ! 

Had  I  lost  at  that  awful  juncture  my  presence  of 

mind  ?   .   .   .  but  no  ! 
I  leaned  and   felt   for  the  puncture,  and  plugged  it 

there  with  my  toe  .   .   . 
Hand  over  hand  by   the   Members'   Stand  I   lifted 

and  eased  her  up, 
Shot  —  clean  and   fair  —  to  the  crossbar  there,  and 

landed  the  Jubilee  Cup! 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  The  odd  by  a  head,  and  leg  before,"  so  the  Judge 

he  gave  the  word  : 

And  the   umpire  shouted  u  Over !  "    but  I  neither 
,  spoke  nor  stirred. 

They  crowded   round  :   for  there  on  the  ground  I 

lay  in  a  dead-cold  swoon, 
Pitched   neck   and  crop   on   the   turf  atop  of  my 

beautiful  Wooden   Spoon. 

Her  dewlap  tire  was  punctured,  her  bearings  all  red 

hot; 
She  'd  a  lolling   tongue,  and  her  bowsprit  sprung, 

and  her  running  gear  in  a  knot; 
And  amid   the    sobs    of   her  backers,  Sir  Robert 

loosened  her  girth 
And  led  her  away  to  the  knacker's.     She  had  raced 

her  last  on  earth  ! 

But  I  mind  me  well   of  the  tear  that  fell  from  the 

eye  of  our  noble  Pr*nce, 
And  the  things  he   said  as  he  tucked  me  in  bed  — 

and  I  Ve  lain  there  ever  since  ; 
Tho'   it  all  gets  mixed  up  queerly  that  happened 

before  my  spill,  — 
But  I  draw  my  thousand  yearly  :   it  '11  pay  for  the 

doctor's  bill. 

I  'm  going  out  with  the  tide,  lad  —  you  '11  dig  me 

a  numble  grave, 
And  whiles  you  will  bring  your  bride,  lad,  and  your 

sons,  if  sons  you  have, 
[182] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  there  when   the   dews    are   weeping,  and  the 

echoes  murmur  "  Peace  !  " 
And  the  salt,  salt  tide  comes  creeping  and  covers 

the  popping-crease ; 

In  the  hour  when  the  ducks  deposit  their  eggs  with 

a  boasted  force, 
They  '11    look  and  whisper  "  How  was   it  ? "  and 

you  '11  take  them  over  the  course, 
And  your  voice  will  break  as  you  try  to  speak  of 

the  glorious  first  of  June, 
When  the  Jubilee  Cup,  with  John  Jones  up,  was 

won  upon  Wooden  Spoon. 

Arthur  T.  Quiller-Coucb. 


A  SONG  OF  IMPOSSIBILITIES 


LADY,  I  loved  you  all  last  year, 
How  honestly  and  well  — 
Alas  !  would  weary  you  to  hear, 
And  torture  me  to  tell ; 
I  raved  beneath  the  midnight  sky, 

I  sang  beneath  the  limes  — 
Orlando  in  my  lunacy, 

And  Petrarch  in  my  rhymes. 
But  all  is  over !      When  the  sun 
Dries  up  the  boundless  main, 
When  black  is  white,  false-hearted  one, 
I  may  be  yours  again  ! 
C'83] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

When  passion's  early  hopes  and  fears 

Are  not  derided  things  ; 
When  truth  is  found  in  falling  tears, 

Or  faith  in  golden  rings  ; 
When  the  dark  Fates  that  rule  our  way 

Instruct  me  where  they  hide 
One  woman  that  would  ne'er  betray, 

One  friend  that  never  lied  ; 
When  summer  shines  without  a  cloud, 

And  bliss  without  a  pain; 
When  worth  is  noticed  in  a  crowd, 

I  may  be  yours  again  ! 

When  science  pours  the  light  of  day 

Upon  the  lords  of  lands ; 
When  Huskisson  is  heard  to  say 

That  Lethbridge  understands  ; 
When  wrinkles  work  their  way  in  youth, 

Or  Eldon  's  in  a  hurry  ; 
When  lawyers  represent  the  truth, 

Or  Mr.  Sumner  Surrey; 
When  aldermen  taste  eloquence 

Or  bricklayers  champagne; 
When  common  law  is  common  sense, 

I  may  be  yours  again  ! 

When  learned  judges  play  the  beau, 

Or  learned  pigs  the  tabor; 
When  traveller  Bankes  beats  Cicero, 

Or  Mr.  Bishop  Weber; 
When  sinking  funds  discharge  a  debt, 

Or  female  hands  a  bomb ; 
[  184] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

When  bankrupts  study  the  Gazette, 

Or  colleges  Tom  Thumb; 
When  little  fishes  learn  to  speak, 

Or  poets  not  to  feign  ; 
When  Dr.  Geldart  construes  Greek, 

I  may  be  yours  again  ! 

When  Pole  and  Thornton  honor  cheques, 

Or  Mr.  Const  a  rogue  ; 
When  Jericho  's  in  Middlesex, 

Or  minuets  in  vogue ; 
When  Highgate  goes  to  Devonport, 

Or  fashion  to  Guildhall ; 
When  argument  is  heard  at  Court, 

Or  Mr.  Wynn  at  all ; 
When  Sydney  Smith  forgets  to  jest, 

Or  farmers  to  complain  ; 
When  kings  that  are  are  not  the  best, 

I  may  be  yours  again  ! 

When  peers  from  telling  money  shrink, 

Or  monks  from  telling  lies; 
When  hydrogen  begins  to  sink, 

Or  Grecian  scrip  to  rise; 
When  German  poets  cease  to  dream, 

Americans  to  guess  ; 
When  Freedom  sheds  her  holy  beam 

On  Negroes,  and  the  Press  ; 
When  there  is  any  fear  of  Rome, 

Or  any  hope  of  Spain  ; 
When  Ireland  is  a  happy  home, 

I  may  be  yours  again  ! 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

When  you  can  cancel  what  has  been, 

Or  alter  what  must  be, 
Or  bring  once  more  that  vanished  scene, 

Those  withered  joys  to  me  ; 
When  you  can  tune  the  broken  lute, 

Or  deck  the  blighted  wreath, 
Or  rear  the  garden's  richest  fruit, 

Upon  a  blasted  heath  ; 
When  you  can  lure  the  wolf  at  bay 

Back  to  his  shattered  chain, 
To-day  may  then  be  yesterday  — 

I  may  be  yours  again  ! 

W.  M.  Praed. 


TRUST   IN   WOMEN 

When  these  things  following  be  done  to  our  intent, 
Then  put  women  in  trust  and  confident. 

WHEN  nettles  in   winter  bring   forth  roses 
red, 
And  all  manner  of  thorn  trees  bear  figs 

naturally, 

And  geese  bear  pearls  in  every  mead, 
And  laurel  bear  cherries  abundantly, 
And  oaks  bear  dates  very  plenteously, 
And  kisks  give  of  honey  superfluence, 
Then  put  women  in  trust  and  confidence. 
[186] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

When  box  bear  paper  in  every  land  and  town, 
And  thistles  bear  berries  in  every  place, 

And  pikes  have  naturally  feathers  in  their  crown, 
And  bulls  of  the  sea  sing  a  good  bass, 
And  men  be  the  ships  fishes  trace, 

And  in  women  be  found  no  insipience, 

Then  put  them  in  trust  and  confidence. 

When  whitings  do  walk  forests  to  chase  harts, 
And  herrings  their  horns  in  forests  boldly  blow, 

And  marmsets  mourn  in  moors  and  lakes, 

And  gurnards  shoot  rooks  out  of  a  crossbow, 
And  goslings  hunt  the  wolf  to  overthrow, 

And  sprats  bear  spears  in  armes  of  defence, 

Then  put  women  in  trust  and  confidence. 

When  swine  be  cunning  in  all  points  of  music, 
And  asses  be  doctors  of  every  science, 

And  cats  do  heal  men  by  practising  of  physic, 
And  buzzards  to  scripture  give  any  credence, 
And  merchants  buy  with  horn,  instead  of  groats 
and  pence, 

And  pyes  be  made  poets  for  their  eloquence, 

Then  put  women  in  trust  and  confideace. 

When  sparrows  build  churches  on  a  height, 
And  wrens  carry  sacks  unto  the  mill, 

And  curlews  carry  timber  houses  to  dight, 
And  fomalls  bear  butter  to  market  to  sell, 
And  woodcocks  bear  woodknives  cranes  to  kill, 

And  greenfinches  to  goslings  do  obedience, 

Then  put  women  in  trust  and  confidence. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

When  crows  take  salmon  in  woods  and  parks, 

And  be  take  with  swifts  and  snails, 
And  camels  in  the  air  take  swallows  and  larks, 

And  mice  move  mountains  by  wagging  of  their 
tails, 

And  shipmen  take  a  ride  instead  of  sails, 
And  when  wives  to  their  husbands  do  no  offence, 
Then  put  women  in  trust  and  confidence. 

When  antelopes  surmount  eagles  in  flight, 

And  swans  be  swifter  than  hawks  of  the  tower, 
And  wrens  set  gos-hawks  by  force  and'  might, 
And  muskets  make  verjuice  of  crabbes  sour, 
And  ships  sail  on  dry  land,  silt  give  flower, 
And     apes    in    Westminster    give    judgment   and 

sentence, 
Then  put  women  in  trust  and  confidence. 

Anonymous. 

HERE   IS   THE   TALE 

AFTER  RUDYARD  KIPLING 

Here  is  the  tale  —  and  you  must  make  the  most  of  It  f 
Here  is  the  rhyme  —  ah,  listen  and  attend ! 

Backwards  — forwards  —  read  it  all  and  boast  of  it 
If  you  are  anything  the  wiser  at  the  end  ! 

NOW   Jack  looked  up  —  it  was  time  to  sup, 
and  the  bucket  was  yet  to  fill, 
And    Jack  looked  round    for    a   space  and 
frowned,  then  beckoned  his  SISK*-  JU1, 
[188] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  twice  he  pulled  his  sister's  hair,  and  thrice  he 

smote  her  side  ; 
"  Ha'  done,  ha'  done  with  your  impudent  fun  — 

ha'  done  with  your  games  !  "  she  cried  ; 
"  You  have  made  mud-pies  of  a  marvellous  size  — 

finger  and  face  are  black, 
You  have  trodden  the  Way  of  the  Mire  and  Clay 

—  now  up  and  wash  you,  Jack  ! 
Or  else,  or  ever  we  reach  our  home,  there  waiteth 

an  angry  dame  — 
Well  you    know   the   weight   of   her   blow  • —  the 

supperless  open  shame  ! 
Wash,  if  you  will,  on  yonder  hill  —  wash,  if  you 

will,  at  the  spring,  — 
Or  keep  your   dirt,  to  your  certain  hurt,  and  an 

imminent  walloping  !  " 


"  You  must  wash  —  you  must  scrub  —  you  must 

scrape  !  "   growled  Jack,  "  you  must  traffic 

with  cans  and  pails, 
Nor  keep  the  spoil  of  the  good  brown   soil  in  the 

rim  of  your  finger-nails  ! 
The  morning  path  you  must  tread  to  your  bath  — 

you  must  wash  ere  the  night  descends, 
And  all  for  the  cause  of  conventional  laws  and  the 

soapmakers'  dividends  ! 
But  if  't  is  sooth  that  our  meal  in  truth  depends  on 

our  washing,  Jill, 
By  the  sacred  right  of  our  appetite  —  haste  —  haste 

to  the  top  of  the  hill !  " 
[189] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

They  have  trodden  the  Way  of  the  Mire  and  Clay, 

they  have  toiled  and  travelled  far, 
They  have  climbed  to  the  brow  of  the  hill-top  now, 

where  the  bubbling  fountains  are, 
They  have  taken  the  bucket  and  filled  it  up  —  yea, 

filled  it  up  to  the  brim; 
But  Jack  he  sneered  at  his  sister  Jill,  and  Jill  she 

jeered  at  him  : 
"  What,  blown  already !  "  Jack  cried  out  (and  his 

was  a  biting  mirth  !) 
"  You  boast  indeed  of  your  wonderful  speed  —  but 

what  is  the  boasting  worth  ? 
Now,  if  you  can   run  as  the   antelope  runs,  and  if 

you  can  turn  like  a  hare, 
Come,  race  me,  Jill,  to  the  foot  of  the  hill — and 

prove  your  boasting  fair  !  " 


"  Race  ?    What  is  a  race  "  (and  a  mocking  face  had 

Jill  as  she  spake  the  word) 
"  Unless  for  a  prize  the  runner  tries  ?     The  truth 

indeed  ye  heard, 
For  I  can  run  as  the  antelope  runs,  and  I  can  turn 

like  a  hare  :  — 
The  first  one  down  wins  half-a-crown  — and  I  will 

race  you  there  !  " 
"  Yea,  if  for   the  lesson  that  you  will  learn  (the 

lesson  of  humbled  pride) 
The  price  you   fix  at  two-and-six,  it  shall  not  be 

denied  ; 
Come,  take  your  stand  at  my  right  hand,  for  here 

is  the  mark  we  toe  : 

[  '9°] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Now,  are  you  ready,  and  are  you  steady  ?     Gird  up 
your  petticoats  !     Go  !  " 

And  Jill  she  ran  like  a  winging   bolt,  a  bolt  from 

the  bow  released, 
But  Jack  like  a  stream  of  the  lightning  gleam,  with 

its  pathway  duly  greased  ; 

He  ran  down  hill   in   front  of  Jill  like  a  summer- 
lightning  flash  — 
Till  he  suddenly  tripped  on  a  stone,  or  slipped,  and 

fell  to  the  earth  with  a  crash. 
Then  straight  did  rise  on    his  wondering  eyes  the 

constellations  fair, 
Arcturus  and  the  Pleiades,  the  Greater  and  Lesser 

Bear, 
The  swirling  rain  of  a  comet's  train  he  saw,  as  he 

swiftly  fell  — 
And    Jill    came    tumbling    after  him  with  a  loud 

triumphant  yell  : 
"  You  have  won,  you  have  won,  the  race  is  done  ! 

And  as  for  the  wager  laid  — 
You  have  fallen  down  with  a  broken  crown  —  the 

half-crown  debt  is  paid  !  " 

They  have  taken    Jack  to  the  room  at  the  back 

where  the  family  medicines  are, 
And  he  lies  in  bed  with  a  broken  head  in  a  halo  of 

vinegar  ; 
While,   in  that  Jill   had    laughed    her   fill   as   her 

brother  fell  to  eaith, 
She  had  felt  the  sting  of  a  walloping — she  hath 

paid  the  price  of  her  mirth  ! 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Here  is  the  tale  —  and  now  you  have  the  whole  of  it, 
Here  is  the  story  —  well  and  wisely  planned, 
Beauty  —  Duty  —  these  make  up  the  soul  of  it  — 
But,  ah,  my  little  readers,  will  you  mark  and  under- 
stand ? 

Anthony  C.  Deane. 


T 


THE   AULD  WIFE 


HE  auld  wife  sat  at  her  ivied  door, 

{Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 
A  thing  she  had  frequently  done  before  ; 
And  her  spectacles  lay  on  her  aproned  knees. 


The  piper  he  piped  on  the  hill-top  high, 
{Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 

Till  the  cow   said  "  I   die  "  and   the  goose  asked 

«  Why  •,  " 
And  the  dog  said  nothing,  but  searched  for  fleas. 

The  farmer  he  strode  through  the  square  farmyard  ; 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 
His  last  brew  of  ale  was  a  trifle  hard, 

The  connection  of  which  with  the  plot  one  sees. 

The  farmer's  daughter  hath  frank  blue  eyes, 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 

She  hears  the  rooks  caw  in  the  windy  skies, 
As  she  sits  at  her  lattice  and  shells  her  peas. 
[  '92  J 


A  Nonsense   Anthology 

The  farmer's  daughter  hath  ripe  red  lips ; 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 
If  you  try  to  approach  her,  away  she  skips 

Over  tables  and  chairs  with  apparent  ease. 

The  farmer's  daughter  hath  soft  brown  hair; 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese} 
And  I  met  with  a  ballad,  I  can't  say  where, 

Which  wholly  consisted  of  lines  like  these. 

She  sat  with  her  hands  'neath  her  dimpled  cheeks, 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese} 

And  spake  not  a  word.     While  a  lady  speaks 
There  is  hope,  but  she  did  n't  even  sneeze. 

She  sat  with  her  hands  'neath  her  crimson  cheeks  ; 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese} 
She  gave  up  mending  her  father's  breeks, 

And  let  the  cat  roll  in  her  best  chemise. 

She  sat  with  her  hands  'neath  her  burning  cheeks 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese}, 

And  gazed  at  the  piper  for  thirteen  weeks  ; 

Then  she  followed  him  out  o'er  the  misty  leas. 

Her  sheep  followed  her  as  their  tails  did  them 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese}* 

And  this  song  is  considered  a  perfect  gem, 
And  as  to  the  meaning,  it 's  what  you  please. 

Charles  S.   Calverley. 
C  '3]  [  193  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


NOT   I 

SOME  like  drink 
In  a  pint  pot, 
Some  like  to  think, 
Some  not. 

Strong  Dutch  cheese, 

Old  Kentucky  Rye, 
Some  like  these  ; 

Not  I. 

Some  like  Poe, 

And  others  like  Scott ; 
Some  like  Mrs.  Stowe, 

Some  not. 

Some  like  to  laugh, 

Some  like  to  cry, 
Some  like  to  chaff; 

Not  I. 

R.  L.  Stevenson 


MINNIE   AND   WINNIE 

MINNIE  and  Winnie 
Slept  in  a  shell. 
Sleep,  little  ladies ! 
And  they  slept  well. 
[  '94  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Pink  was  the  shell  within, 

Silver  without ; 
Sounds  of  the  great  sea 

Wandered  about. 

Sleep  little  ladies  ! 

Wake  not  soon  ! 
Echo  on  echo 

Dies  to  the  moon. 

Two  bright  stars 

Peep'd  into  the  shell, 
What  are  they  dreaming  of? 

Who  can  tell  ? 

Started  a  green  linnet 

Out  of  the  croft ; 
Wake,  little  ladies, 

The  sun  is  aloft  ! 

Lord  Tennyson. 

THE   MAYOR   OF   SCUTTLETON* 

THE  Mayor  of  Scuttleton  burned  his  nose 
Trying  to  warm  his  copper  toes ; 
He  lost  his  money  and  spoiled^his  will 
By  signing  his  name  with  an  icicle  quill ; 
He  went  bareheaded,  and  held  his  breath, 
And  frightened  his  grandame  most  to  death  ; 
He  loaded  a  shovel  and  tried  to  shoot, 
And  killed  the  calf  in  the  leg  of  his  boot; 

*   From  "Rhymes  and  Jingles,"  copyright,  1874,    1902,  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


He  melted  a  snowbird  and  formed  the  habit 
Of  dancing  jigs  with  a  sad  Welsh  rabbit  ; 
He  lived  on  taffy  and  taxed  the  town ; 
And  read  his  newspaper  upside  down  ; 
Then  he  sighed  and  hung  his  hat  on  a  feather, 
And  bade  the  townspeople  come  together; 
But  the  worst  of  it  all  was,  nobody  knew 
What  the  Mayor  of  Scuttleton  next  would  do. 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


THE   PURPLE   COW* 


I 


NEVER  saw  a  Purple  Cow, 

I  never  hope  to  see  one ; 
But  I  can  tell  you,  anyhow, 
I  'd  rather  see  than  be  one. 


Gelett  Burgess. 


THE   INVISIBLE   BRIDGE* 


I 


SD  Never  Dare  to  Walk  across 
A  Bridge  I  Could  Not  See ; 
For  Quite  afraid  of  Falling  off, 
I  fear  that  I  Should  Be  ! 

Gelett  Burgess. 

*  By  permission  of  Gelett  Burgess ;  from  "  The  Burgess  Nonsense 
Book,"  copyright,  1901. 

[   '96] 


A  Nonsense  Anthology 


THE   LAZY   ROOF* 

THE  Roof  it  has  a  Lazy  Time 
A-lying  in  the  Sun  ; 
The  Walls  they  have  to  Hold  Him  Up ; 
They  do  Not  Have  Much  Fun  ! 

Gelett  Burgess. 


MY   FEET' 

MY  feet,  they  haul  me  Round  the  House, 
They  Hoist  me  up  the  Stairs  ; 
I  only  have  to  Steer  them  and 
They  Ride  me  Everywheres. 

Gelett  Burgess. 


THE   HENt 

ALAS  !  my  Child,  where  is  the  Pen 
That  can  do  Justice  to  the  Hen  ? 
Like  Royalty,  She  goes  her  way, 
Laying  foundations  every  day, 
Though  not  for  Public  Buildings,  yet 
For  Custard,  Cake  and  Omelette. 

*  By  permission  of  Gelett  Burgess;  from  "The  Burgess  Nonsense 
Book,"  copyright,  1901. 

f  By  p»mission  of  Oliver  Herford  ;  from  "More  Animals,"  copy- 
right, 1901. 

[    197] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Or  if  too  Old  for  such  a  use 

They  have  their  Fling  at  some  Abuse, 

As  when  to  Censure  Plays  Unfit 

Upon  the  Stage  they  make  a  Hit, 

Or  at  elections  Seal  the  Fate 

Of  an  Obnoxious  Candidate. 

No  wonder,  Child,  we  prize  the  Hen, 

Whose  Egg  is  Mightier  than  the  Pen. 

Oliver  Herford. 


THE   COW* 


THE  Cow  is  too  well  known,  I  fear, 
To  need  an  introduction  here. 
If  She  should  vanish  from  earth's  face 
It  would  be  hard  to  fill  her  place ; 
For  with  the  Cow  would  disappear 
So  much  that  every  one  holds  Dear. 
Oh,  think  of  all  the  Boots  and  Shoes, 
Milk  Punches,  Gladstone  Bags  and  Stews, 
And  Things  too  numerous  to  count, 
Of  which,  my  child,  she  is  the  Fount. 
Let 's  hope,  at  least,  the  Fount  may  last 
Until  our  Generation  's  past. 

Oliver  Herford. 

*  By  permission  of  Oliver  Herford  ;  from  "  More  Animals,"  copy- 
right, 1901. 

[I98] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 
THE   CHIMPANZEE* 

/CHILDREN,  behold  the  Chimpanzee: 

He  sits  on  the  ancestral  tree 
^""^   From  which  we  sprang  in  ages  gone. 
I  'm  glad  we  sprang  :   had  we  held  on, 
We  might,  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
Be  horrid  Chimpanzees  to-day. 

Oliver  Herford. 

THE   HIPPOPOTAMUS* 

OH,  say,  what  is  this  fearful,  wild, 
Incorrigible  cuss?" 
"  This  creature  (don't  say  '  cuss,'  my  child  ; 
'T  is  slang)  —  this  creature  fierce  is  styled 
The  Hippopotamus. 
His  curious  name  derives  its  source 
From  two  Greek  words  :   hippos  —  a  horse, 
Potamos  —  river.      See  ? 
The  river  's  plain  enough,  of  course  ; 
But  why  they  called  that  thing  a  horse, 
That 's  what  is  Greek  to  me." 

Oliver  Herford. 


THE   PLATYPUS* 

Y  child,  the  Duck-billed  Platypus 
A  sad  example  sets  for  us  : 
From  him  we  learn  how  Indecision 
Of  character  provokes  Derision. 


M' 


*  By  permission  of  Oliver  Herford;  from  "  A  Child's    Primer  of 
Natural  History,"  copyright,  1899. 

[  '99  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

This  vacillating  Thing,  you  see, 

Could  not  decide  which  he  would  be, 

Fish,  Flesh  or  Fowl,  and  chose  all  three. 

The  scientists  were  sorely  vexed 

To  classify  him  ;  so  perplexed 

Their  brains,  that  they,  with  Rage  at  bay, 

Called  him  a  horrid  name  one  day,  — 

A  name  that  baffles,  frights  and  shocks  us, 

Ornithorhynchus  Paradoxus. 

Oliver  Herford. 


SOME  GEESE* 

EV-ER-Y  child  who  has  the  use 
Of  his  sen-ses  knows  a  goose. 
See  them  un-der-neath  the  tree 
Gath-er  round  the  goose-girl's  knee, 
While  she  reads  them  by  the  hour 
From  the  works  of  Scho-pen-hau-er. 

How  pa-tient-ly  the  geese  at-tend  ! 
But  do  they  re-al-ly  com-pre-hend 
What  Scho-pen-hau-er  's  driv-ing  at  ? 
Oh,  not  at  all ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
Nei-ther  do  I ;  nei-ther  does  she  ; 
And,  for  that  mat-ter,  nor  does  he. 

Oliver  Herford 

*  By  permission  of  Oliver  Herford  ;  from  "  A  Child's  Primer  ol 
Natural  History,"  copyright,  1899. 

[  200  ] 


0 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THE   FLAMINGO* 

Inspired  by  reading  a  chorus  of  .spirits 
in  a  German  play 

FIRST  VOICE. 

H  !  tell  me  have  you  ever  seen  a  red,  long- 

leg'd  Flamingo  ? 

Oh  !  tell  me  have  you  ever  yet  seen  him  the 
water  in  go  ? 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Oh  !  yes  at  Bowling-Green   I  've  seen  a  red  long- 

leg'd  Flamingo, 
Oh  !   yes  at  Bowling-Green   I  've  there  seen  him 

the  water  in  go. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

Oh !    tell   me  did  you  ever    see  a  bird  so   funny 

stand-o 
When  forth  he  from  the  water  comes  and  gets  upon 

the  land-o  ? 

SECOND  VOICE. 

No  !    in  my  life  I   ne'er  did  see  a  bird  so  funny 

stand-o 
When  forth  he  from  the  water  comes  and  gets  upon 

the  land-o. 

*  By  permission  of  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 
[201    ] 


A    Nonsense    Anthology 


FIRST  VOICE. 

He  has  a  leg  some  three  feet  long,  or  near  it,  so 

they  say,  Sir. 
Stiff  upon  one  alone  he  stands,  t'  other  he  stows 

away,  Sir. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

And  what  an  ugly  head  he  's  got !   I  wonder  that 

he  'd  wear  it. 
But  rather  more  I  wonder  that  his  long,  thin  neck 

can  bear  it. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

And  think,  this  length  of  neck  and  legs  (no  doubt 

they  have  their  uses) 
Are  members  of  a  little  frame,  much  smaller  than 

a  goose's  ! 

BOTH. 

Oh  !  is  n't  he  a  curious  bird,  that  red,  long-leg'd 

Flamingo  ? 
;\  water    bird,  a  gawky  bird,  a  sing'lar  bird,  by 


jingo ! 


Lewis  Gaylord  Clark. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


KINDNESS   TO   ANIMALS 

SPEAK  gently  to  the  herring  and   kindly  to  the 
calf, 
Be   blithesome   with  the  bunny,  at  barnacles 

don't  laugh  ! 

Give  nuts  unto  the  monkey,  and  buns  unto  the  bear, 
Ne'er  hint  at  currant  jelly  if  you  chance  to  see  a 

hare  ! 
Oh,  little  girls,  pray  hide  your  combs  when  tortoises 

draw  nigh, 

And  never  in  the  hearing  of  a  pigeon  whisper  Pie ! 
But  give  the  stranded  jelly-fish  a  shove  into  the  sea,  — 
Be  always  kind  to  animals  wherever  you  may  be  ! 

Oh,  make  not  game  of  sparrows,  nor  faces  at  the 

ram, 
And  ne'er  allude  to  mint  sauce  when  calling  on  a 

lamb. 
Don't  beard  the  thoughtful  oyster,  don't  dare  the 

cod  to  crimp, 
Don't  cheat  the  pike,  or  ever  try  to  pot  the  playful 

shrimp. 
Tread  lightly  on  the  turning  worm,  don't  bruise 

the  butterfly, 
Don't  ridicule  the  wry-neck,  nor  sneer  at  salmon- 

fry; 
Oh,  ne'er  delight  to  make  dogs  fight,  nor  bantams 

disagree,  — 
Be  always  kind  to  animals  wherever  you  may  be  ! 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Be  lenient  with  lobsters,  and  ever  kind  to  crabs, 
And  be  not  disrespectful  to  cuttle-fish  or  dabs  ; 
Chase  not  the  Cochin-China,  chaff  not  the  ox  obese, 
And  babble  not  of  feather-beds  in   company  with 

geese. 

Be  tender  with  the  tadpole,  and  let  the  limpet  thrive, 
Be  merciful  to  mussels,  don't  skin  your  eels  alive ; 
When  talking  to  a  turtle  don't  mention  calipee  — 
Be  always  kind  to  animals  wherever  you  may  be. 

J.  Ai hby-S 'terry. 


SAGE   COUNSEL 

r  I  ^HE  lion  is  the  beast  to  fight, 
He  leaps  along  the  plain, 
And  if  you  run  with  all  your  might, 
He  runs  with  all  his  mane. 

I  'm  glad  I  'm  not  a  Hottentot, 
But  if  I  were,  with  outward  cal-lum 
I  'd  either  faint  upon  the  spot 
Or  hie  me  up  a  leafy  pal-lum. 

The  chamois  is  the  beast  to  hunt ; 

He  's  fleeter  than  the  wind, 
And  when  the  chamois  is  in  front, 
The  hunter  is  behind. 

The  Tyrolese  make  famous  cheese 
And  hunt  the  chamois  o'er  the  chaz-zums  ; 
I  'd  choose  the  former  if  you  please, 
For  precipices  give  me  spaz-zums. 
[204] 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 

The  polar  bear  will  make  a  rug 
Almost  as  white  as  snow  ; 
But  if  he  gets  you  in  his  hug, 
He  rarely  lets  you  go. 

And  Polar  ice  looks  very  nice, 
With  all  the  colors  of  a  pris-sum  ; 
But,  if  you  '11  follow  my  advice, 
Stay  home  and  learn  your  catechissum. 
A.  T,  Qui/Ier- Couch. 


OF   BAITING   THE   LION* 

REMEMBERING  his  taste  for  blood 
You  'd  better  bait  him  with  a  cow  ; 
Persuade  the  brute  to  chew  the  cud 
Her  tail  suspended  from  a  bough ; 
It  thrills  the  lion  through  and  through 
To  hear  the  milky  creature  moo. 

Having  arranged  this  simple  ruse, 

Yourself  you  climb  a  neighboring  tree; 

See  to  it  that  the  spot  vou  choose 
Commands  the  coming  tragedy ; 

Take  up  a  smallish  Maxim  gun, 
A  search-light,  whisky,  and  a  bun. 

It 's  safer,  too,  to  have  your  bike 

Standing  immediately  below, 
In  case  your  piece  should  fail  to  strike, 

Or  deal  an  ineffective  blow  ; 

*  By  permission  of  John  Lane  ;  from  "  In  Cap  and  Bells,"  copy- 
right, 1899. 

[205  ] 


A    Nonsense    Anthology 

The  Lion  moves  with  perfect  grace, 
But  cannot  go  the  scorcher's  pace. 

Keep  open  ear  for  subtle  signs  ; 

Thus,  when  the  cow  profusely  moans, 
That  means  to  say,  the  Lion  dines. 

The  crunching  sound,  of  course,  is  bones  ; 
Silence  resumes  her  ancient  reign  — 

This  shows  the  cow  is  out  of  pain. 

But  when  a  fat  and  torpid  hum 
Escapes  the  eater's  unctuous  nose, 

Turn  up  the  light  and  let  it  come 
Full  on  his  innocent  repose ; 

Then  pour  your  shot  between  his  eyes, 
And  go  on  pouring  till  he  dies. 

Play,  even  so,  discretion's  part ; 

Descend  with  stealth  ;  bring  on  your  gun  ; 
Then  lay  your  hand  above  his  heart 

To  see  if  he  is  really  done ; 
Don't  skin  him  till  you  know  he  's  dead 

Or  you  may  perish  in  his  stead  ! 

Years  hence,  at  home,  when  talk  is  tall, 
You  '11  set  the  gun-room  wide  agape, 

Describing  how  with  just  a  small 
Pea-rifle,  going  after  ape 

You  met  a  Lion  unaware, 

And  felled  him  flying  through  the  air. 

Owen  Seaman. 
[  206  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THE   FROG 

BE  kind  and  tender  to  the  Frog, 
And  do  not  call  him  names, 
As  "  Slimy-Skin,"  or  "  Polly-wog," 
Or  likewise,  "  Uncle  James," 
Or  "Gape-a-grin,"  or  u  Toad-gone-wrong," 

Or  "  Billy-Bandy-knees  ;  " 
The  Frog  is  justly  sensitive 
To  epithets  like  these. 

No  animal  will  more  repay 

A  treatment  kind  and  fair, 
At  least,  so  lonely  people  say 
Who  keep  a  frog  (and,  by  the  way, 

They  are  extremely  rare). 

Hilaire  Belloc. 


A 


THE   YAK 

S  a  friend  to  the  children  commend  me  the  yak, 

You  will  find  it  exactly  the  thing  : 
It  will  carry  and  fetch,  you  can  ride  on  its 

back, 
Or  lead  it  about  with  a  string. 


A  Tartar  who  dwells  on  the  plains  of  Thibet 

(A  desolate  region  of  snow) 
Has  for  centuries  made  it  a  nursery  pet, 

And  surely  the  Tartar  should  know  ! 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Then  tell  your  papa  where  the  Yak  can  be  got, 

And  if  he  is  awfully  rich, 
He  will  buy  you  the  creature — or  else  he  will  not, 

(I  cannot  be  positive  which). 

Hilaire  Belloc. 


A 


THE   PYTHON 


PYTHON  I  should  not  advise,— 
It  needs  a  doctor  for  its  eyes, 
And  has  the  measles  yearly. 


However,  if  you  feel  inclined 

To  get  one  (to  improve  your  mind, 

And  not  from  fashion  merely), 
Allow  no  music  near  its  cage ; 
And  when  it  flies  into  a  rage 

Chastise  it  most  severely. 

I  had  an  Aunt  in  Yucatan 

Who  bought  a  Python  from  a  man 

And  kept  it  for  a  pet. 
She  died  because  she  never  knew 
These  simple  little  rules  and  few  ;  — 

The  snake  is  living  yet. 

Hilaire  Belloc. 
[.08] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THE   BISON 

f  I  ARE  Bison  is  vain,  and  (I  write  it  with  pain) 

The  Door-mat  you  see  on  his  head 
Is  not,  as  some  learned  professors  maintain, 
The  opulent  growth  of  a  genius'  brain  ; 
But  is  sewn  on  with  needle  and  thread. 

Hilaire  Belloc. 


THE   PANTHER 

BE  kind  to  the  panther !   for  when   thou  wert 
young, 
In  thy  country  far  over  the  sea, 
'T  was  a  panther  ate  up  thy  papa  and  mamma, 
And  had  several  mouthfuls  of  thee  ! 

Be  kind  to  the  badger !   for  who  shall  decide 

The  depths  of  his  badgerly  soul  ? 
And  think  of  the  tapir  when  flashes  the  lamp 

O'er  the  fast  and  the  free-flowing  bowl. 

Be  kind  to  the  camel !  nor  let  word  of  thine 

Ever  put  up  his  bactrian  back  ; 
And  cherish  the  she-kangaroo  with  her  bag, 

Nor  venture  to  give  her  the  sack. 

Be  kind  to  the  ostrich  !   for  how  canst  thou  hope 

To  have  such  a  stomach  as  it  ? 
And  when  the  proud  day  of  your  bridal  shall  come, 

Do  give  the  poor  birdie  a  bit. 
[  H  J  [  209  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Be  kind  to  the  walrus  !  nor  ever  forget 

To  have  it  on  Tuesday  to  tea  -, 
But  butter  the  crumpets  on  only  one  side, 

Save  such  as  are  eaten  by  thee. 

Be  kind  to  the  bison  !  and  let  the  jackal 
In  the  light  of  thy  love  have  a  share ; 

And  coax  the  ichneumon  to  grow  a  new  tail, 
And  have  lots  of  larks  in  its  lair. 

Be  kind  to  the  bustard  !   that  genial  bird, 
And  humor  its  wishes  and  ways ; 

And  when  the  poor  elephant  suffers  from  bile, 
Then  tenderly  lace  up  his  stays  ! 

Anonymoii 

THE  MONKEY'S   GLUE 

WHEN  the  monkey  in  his  madness 
Took  the  glue  to  mend  his  voice, 
'T  was  the  crawfish  showed  his  sadness 
That  the  bluebird  could  rejoice. 

Then  the  perspicacious  parrot 

Sought  to  save  the  suicide 
By  administering  carrot, 

But  the  monkey  merely  died. 

So  the  crawfish  and  the  parrot 

Sauntered  slowly  toward  the  sea, 
While  the  bluebird  stole  the  carrot 

And  returned  the  glue  to  me. 

Gold-win  Goldsmith. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THERE   WAS   A   FROG 

r  1  ^HERE  was  a  frog  swum  in  the  lake, 
The  crab  came  crawling  by : 
"  Wilt  them,"  coth  the  frog, "  be  my  make  ?  " 

Coth  the  crab,  "  No,  not  I." 
"  My  skin  is  sooth  and  dappled  fine, 

I  can  leap  far  and  nigh. 
Thy  shell  is  hard  :    so  is  not  mine." 

Coth  the  crab,  "  No,  not  I." 
"  Tell  me,"  then  spake  the  crab,  "  therefore, 

Or  else  I  thee  defy  : 
Give  me  thy  claw,  I  ask  no  more." 

Coth  the  frog,  "  That  will  I." 
The  crab  bit  off  the  frog's  fore-feet; 

The  frog  then  he  must  die. 
To  woo  a  crab  it  is  not  meet : 

If  any  do,  it  is  not  I. 

From  Christ  Church  MS.,  I. 


THE  BLOATED   BIGGABOON 

r  I  "\HE  bloated  Biggaboon 

Was  so  haughty,  he  would  not  repose 
In  a  house,  or  a  hall,  or  ces  choses, 
But  he  slept  his  high  sleep  in  his  clothes  — 
'Neath  the  moon. 

[211] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

The  bloated  Biggaboon 
Pour'd  contempt  upon  waistcoat  and  skirt, 
Holding  swallow-tails  even  as  dirt  — 
So  he  puft'd  himself  out  in  his  shirt, 

Like  a  b'loon. 

H.  Cbolmondeley-Pennell. 


0 


N 


WILD   FLOWERS* 

F  what  are  you  afraid,  my  child  ?  "  inquired 

the  kindly  teacher. 

Oh,    sir !    the    flowers,   they    are    wild," 
replied  the  timid  creature. 

Peter  Newell. 

TIMID   HORTENSE* 

OW,  if  the  fish  will  only  bite,  we  '11  have  some 

royal  fun." 

"  And   do   fish   bite  ?      The  horrid  things  ! 
Indeed,  I  '11  not  catch  one  !  " 

Peter  Newell. 

HER   POLKA   DOTS* 

SHE  played  upon  her  music-box  a  fancy  air  by 
chance, 
And   straightway  all  her  polka-dots   began  a 
lively  dance. 

Peter  Newell. 

*  By    permission  of  Harper  &    Brothers ;    from   "  Pictures    and 
Rhymes,"  copyright,  1900. 

[212] 


A 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


HER   DAIRY* 

MILKWEED,  and  a  buttercup,  and  cow- 
slip," said  sweet  Mary, 
"  Are  growing  in  my  garden-plot,  and  this 
I  call  my  dairy." 

Peter  Newell. 


TURVEY   TOP 

'fT~>  WAS  after  a  supper  of  Norfolk  brawn 

That  into  a  doze  I  chanced  to  drop, 
And  thence  awoke  in  the  gray  of  dawn, 
In  the  wonder-land  of  Turvey  Top. 

A  land  so  strange  I  never  had  seen, 

And  could  not  choose  but  look  and  laugh  — 

A  land  where  the  small  the  great  includes, 
And  the  whole  is  less  than  the  half! 

A  land  where  the  circles  were  not  lines 
Round  central  points,  as  schoolmen  show, 

And  the  parallels  met  whenever  they  chose, 
And  went  playing  at  touch-and-go ! 

There  —  except  that  every  round  was  square 
And  save  that  all  the  squares  were  rounds  — 

No  surface  had  limits  anywhere, 

So  they  never  could  beat  the  bounds. 

*  By    permission  of  Harper   &    Brothers;     from    "  Pictures     and 
Rhymes,"  copyright,  1900. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

In  their  gardens,  fruit  before  blossom  came, 
And  the  trees  diminished  as  they  grew ; 

And  you  never  went  out  to  walk  a  mile, 
'T  was  the  mile  that  walked  to  you. 


The  people  there  are  not  tall  or  short, 

Heavy  or  light,  or  stout  or  thin, 
And  their  lives  begin  where  they  should  leave  off, 

Or  leave  off  where  they  should  begin. 

There  childhood,  with  naught  of  childish  glee, 
Looks  on  the  world  with  thoughtful  brow  ; 

'T  is  only  the  aged  who  laugh  and  crow, 
And  cry,  "  We  have  done  with  it  now  !  " 

A  singular  race  !  what  lives  they  spent ! 

Got  up  before  they  went  to  bed  ! 
And  never  a  man  said  what  he  meant, 

Or  a  woman  meant  what  she  said. 


They  blended  colours  that  will  not  blend, 
All  hideous  contrasts  voted  sweet  j 

In  yellow  and  red  their  Quakers  dress'd, 
And  considered  it  rather  neat. 


They  did  n't  believe  in  the  wise  and  good, 
Said  the  best  were  worst,  the  wisest  fools  ; 

And  't  was  only  to  have  their  teachers  taught 
That  they  founded  national  schools. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

They  read  in  "  books  that  are  no  books," 
Their  classics  —  chess-boards  neatly  bound; 

Those  their  greatest  authors  who  never  wrote, 
And  their  deepest  the  least  profound. 

Now,  such  were  the  folks  of  that  wonder-land, 
A  curious  people,  as  you  will  own  ; 

But  are  there  none  of  the  race  abroad, 
Are  no  specimens  elsewhere  known  ? 

Well,  I  think  that  he  whose  views  of  life 
Are  crooked,  wrong,  perverse,  and  odd, 

Who  looks  upon  all  with  jaundiced  eyes  — 
Sees  himself  and  believes  it  God, 

Who  sneers  at  the  good,  and  makes  the  ill, 

Curses  a  world  he  cannot  mend  ; 
Who  measures  life  by  the  rule  of  wrong 

And  abuses  its  aim  and  end, 

The  man  who  stays  when  he  ought  to  move, 
And  only  goes  when  he  ought  to  stop  — 

Is  strangely  like  the  folk  in  my  dream, 
And  would  flourish  in  Turvey  Top. 

Anonymous. 

WHAT  THE  PRINCE  OF  I  DREAM  I 


I 


DREAMT  it !  such  a  funny  thing 

And  now  it 's  taken  wing  ; 
I  s'pose  no  man  before  or  since 
Dreamt  such  a  funny  thing  ? 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

It  had  a  Dragon  ;  with  a  tail  \ 
A  tail  both  long  and  slim, 

And  ev'ry  day  he  wagg'd  at  it  — 
How  good  it  was  of  him  1 

And  so  to  him  the  tailest 
Of  all  three-tailed  Bashaws, 

Suggested  that  for  reasons 
The  waggling  should  pause; 

And  held  his  tail  —  which,  parting, 
Reversed  that  Bashaw,  which 

Reversed  that  Dragon,  who  reversed 
Himself  into  a  ditch. 


It  had  a  monkey  —  in  a  trap  — 

Suspended  by  the  tail : 
Oh  !  but  that  monkey  look'd  distress^ 

And  his  countenance  was  pale. 

And  he  had  danced  and  dangled  there; 

Till  he  grew  very  mad  : 
For  his  tail  it  was  a  handsome  tail 

And  the  trap  had  pinched  it  —  bad. 

The  trapper  sat  below,  and  grinn'd  ; 

His  victim's  wrath  wax'd  hot : 
He  bit  his  tail  in  two  —  and  fell  — 

And  killed  him  on  the  spot. 

[216] 


It  had  a  pig  —  a  stately  pig ; 

With  curly  tail  and  quaint : 
And  the  Great  Mogul  had  hold  of  that 

Till  he  was  like  to  faint. 


So  twenty  thousand  Chinamen, 
With  three  tails  each  at  least, 

Came  up  to  help  the  Great  Mogul, 
And  took  him  round  the  waist. 


And  so,  the  tail  slipp'd  through  his  hands ; 

And  so  it  came  to  pass, 
That  twenty  thousand  Chinamen 

Sat  down  upon  the  grass. 


It  had  a  Khan  —  a  Tartar  Khan  — 

With  tail  superb,  I  wis; 
And  that  fell  graceful  down  a  back 

Which  was  considered  his. 

Wherefore  all  sorts  of  boys  that  were 

Accursed,  swung  by  it  ; 
Till  he  grew  savage  in  his  mind 

And  vex'd,  above  a  bit : 

And  so  he  swept  his  tail,  as  one 
Awak'ning  from  a  dream  ; 

And  those  abominable  ones 
Flew  off  into  the  stream. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Likewise  they  hobbled  up  and  down, 

Like  many  apples  there ; 
Till  they  subsided  —  and  became 

Amongst  the  things  that  were. 

And  so  it  had  a  moral  too, 

That  would  be  bad  to  lose; 
"  Whoever  takes  a  Tail  in  hand 

Should  mind  his  p's  and  queues." 

I  dreamt  it !  —  such  a  funny  thing  ! 

And  now  it 's  taken  wing  ; 
I  s'pose  no  man  before  or  since 

Dreamt  such  a  funny  thing  ? 

H.  Cholmondeley-Pennell. 

THE   DINKEY-BIRD* 

IN  an  ocean,  'way  out  yonder 
(As  all  sapient  people  know), 
Is  the  land  of  Wonder- Wander, 
Whither  children  love  to  go ; 
It 's  their  playing,  romping,  swinging, 

That  give  great  joy  to  me 
While  the  Dinkey-Bird  goes  singing 
In  the  Amfalula-tree  ! 

There  the  gum-drops  grow  like  cherries, 

And  taffy's  thick  as  peas,  — 
Caramels  you  pick  like  berries 

When,  and  where,  and  how  you  please  : 

*  From  "  Poems  of  Childhood,"  copyright,  1892,  by  Mary  French 
Field  j    1894  by  Eugene  Field. 

[218] 


Big  red  sugar-plums  are  clinging 
To  the  cliffs  beside  that  sea 

Where  the  Dinkey-Bird  is  singing 
In  the  Amfalula-tree. 

So  when  children  shout  and  scamper 

And  make  merry  all  the  day, 
When  there  's  naught  to  put  a  damper 

To  the  ardor  of  their  play  ; 
When  I  hear  their  laughter  ringing, 

Then  I  'm  sure  as  sure  can  be 
That  the  Dinkey-Bird  is  singing 

In  the  Amfalula-tree. 

For  the  Dinkey-Bird's  bravuras 

And  staccatos  are  so  sweet  — 
His  roulades,  appogiaturas, 

And  robustos  so  complete, 
That  the  youth  of  every  nation  — 

Be  they  near  or  far  away  — 
Have  especial  delectation 

In  that  gladsome  roundelay. 

Their  eyes  grow  bright  and  brighter, 

Their  lungs  begin  to  crow, 
Their  hearts  get  light  and  lighter, 

And  their  cheeks  are  all  aglow  ; 
For  an  echo  cometh  bringing 

The  news  to  all  and  me. 
That  the  Dinkey-Bird  is  singing 

In  the  Amfalula-tree. 
[  219  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

I  'm  sure  you  'd  like  to  go  there 

To  see  your  feathered  friend  — 
And  so  many  goodies  grow  there 

You  would  like  to  comprehend  ! 
Speed,  little  dreams,  your  winging 

To  that  land  across  the  sea 
Where  the  Dickey-Bird  is  singing 

In  the  Amf alula-  Tree  ! 

Eugene  Field. 


SAID  the  Raggedy  Man  on  a  hot  afternoon, 
"My! 
Sakes  ! 

What  a  lot  o'  mistakes 

Some  little  folks  makes  on  the  Man  in  the  Moon  I 
But  people  that 's  been  up  to  see  him  like  Me, 
And  calls  on  him  frequent  and  intimutly, 
Might  drop  a  few  hints  that  would  interest  you 
Clean  !  ' 

Through  ! 

If  you  wanted  'em  to  — 
Some  actual  facts  that  might  interest  you  ! 

"  O  the  Man  in  the  Moon  has  a  crick  in  his  back ; 
Whee ! 

Whimm  ! 

Ain't  you  sorry  for  him  ? 
And  a  mole  on  his  nose  that  is  purple  and  black; 

*  By  permission  of  the  author;  from  "Rhymes  of  Childhood," 
copyright,  1890,  1898. 

[  220  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  his  eyes  are  so  weak  that  they  water  and  ru., 
If  he  dares  to  dream  even  he  looks  at  the  sun,  — 
So  he  jes'  dreams  of  stars,  as  the  doctors  advise  — 
My! 

Eyes ! 

But  isn't  he  wise  — 
To  jes'  dream  of  stars,  as  the  doctors  advise  ? 


"  And  the  Man  in  the  Moon  has  a  boil  on  his  eai    - 
Whee! 

Whing ! 

What  a  singular  thing  ! 

I  know  !  but  these  facts  are  authentic,  my  dear,  .— 
There  's  a  boil  on  his  ear ;  and  a  corn  on  his  chin, — 
He  calls  it  a  dimple, —  but  dimples  stick  in, — 
Yet  it  might  be  a  dimple  turned  over,  you  know  ! 
Whang ! 
Ho! 

Why  certainly  so  !  — 
It  might  be  a  dimple  turned  over,  you  know  ! 


"  And  the  Man  in  the  Moon  has  a  rheumatic  knee, 
Gee! 

Whizz  ! 

What  a  pity  that  is  ! 
And  his  toes  have  worked  round  where  his  heels 

ought  to  be. 

So  whenever  he  wants  to  go  North  he  goes  South, 
And  comes  back  with  the  porridge  crumbs  all  round 
his  mouth, 

[   221   ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  he  brushes  them  off  with  a  Japanese  fan, 
Whing! 

Whann  ! 

What  a  marvellous  man  ! 
What  a  very  remarkably  marvellous  man  ! 

"  And  the  Man  in  the  Moon,"  sighed  the  Raggedy 

Man, 
"Gits! 
So! 

Sullonesome,  you  know  ! 
Up  there  by  himself  since  creation  began  !  — 
That  when  I  call  on  him  and  then  come  away, 
He  grabs  me  and  holds  me  and  begs  me  to  stay, — 
Till  —  well,  if  it  was  n't  for  'Jimmy-cum-'Jim, 
Dadd! 

Limb! 

I  'd  go  pardners  with  him  ! 
Jes'  jump  my  bob  here  and  be  pardners  with  him  !  " 

James  Whit  comb  Ri/ey. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  WILD 
HUNTSMAN 

THIS   is  the  Wild  Huntsman  that  shoots  the 
hares  ; 
With  the  grass-green  coat  he  always  wears ; 
With  game-bag,  powder-horn  and  gun, 
He  's  going  out  to  have  some  fun. 
He  finds  it  hard  without  a  pair 
Of  spectacles,  to  shoot  the  hare. 
[  222  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

He  put  his  spectacles  upon  his  nose,  and  said, 

"  Now    I    will    shoot    the    hares    and    kill     them 

dead." 

The  hare  sits  snug  in  leaves  and  grass, 
And  laughs  to  see  the  green  man  pass. 
Now  as  the  sun  grew  very  hot, 
And  he  a  heavy  gun  had  got, 
He  lay  down  underneath  a  tree 
And  went  to  sleep  as  you  may  see. 
And,  while  he  slept  like  any  top, 
The  little  hare  came,  hop,  hop,  hop,  — 
Took  gun  and  spectacles,  and  then 
Softly  on  tiptoe  went  off  again. 
The  green  man  wakes,  and  sees  her  place 
The  spectacles  upon  her  face. 
She  pointed  the  gun  at  the  hunter's  heart, 
Who  jumped  up  at  once  with  a  start. 
He  cries,  and  screams,  and  runs  away. 
u  Help  me,  good  people,  help  !   I  pray." 
At  last  he  stumbled  at  the  well, 
Head  over  ears,  and  in  he  fell. 
The  hare  stopped  short,  took  aim,  and  hark  ! 
Bang  went  the  gun  !  —  she  missed  her  mark  ! 
The  poor  man's  wife  was  drinking  up 
Her  coffee  in  her  coffee-cup  ; 
The  gun  shot  cup  and  saucer  through  ; 
"  Oh  dear  !  "  cried  she,  «  what  shall  I  do  ?  ' 
Hiding  close  by  the  cottage  there, 
Was  the  hare's  own  child,  the  little  hare. 
When  he  heard  the  shot  he  quickly  arose, 
And  while  he  stood  upon  his  toes, 
The  coffee  fell  and  burned  his  nose  j 
[  223  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

"  Oh  dear,"  he  cried,  "  what  burns  me  so  ?  " 
And  held  up  the  spoon  with  his  little  toe. 

Dr.  Heinricb  Hoffman. 


THE  STORY  OF  PYRAMID 
THOTHMES 

/T~^HOTHMES,  who  loved  a  pyramid, 
And  dreamed  of  wonders  that  it  hid, 
Took  up  again  one  afternoon, 
His  longest  staff,  his  sandal  shoon, 
His  evening  meal,  his  pilgrim  flask, 
And  set  himself  at  length  the  task, 
Scorning  the  smaller  and  the  small, 
To  climb  the  highest  one  of  all. 

The  sun  was  very  hot  indeed, 
Yet  Thothmes  never  slacked  his  speed 
Until  upon  the  topmost  stone 
He  lightly  sat  him  down  alone 
To  make  himself  some  pleasant  cheer 
And  turned  to  take  his  flask  of  beer, 
For  he  was  weary  and  athirst. 
Forth  from  the  neck  the  stopper  burst 
And  rudely  waked  the  sleeping  dead. 
In  terror  guilty  Thothmes  fled 
As  rose  majestic,  wroth  and  slow, 
The  Pharaoh's  Ka  of  long  ago. 
"  Help  !   help  !  "  he  cried,  "  or  I  am  lost  ! 
Oh  !   save  me  from  old  Pharaoh's  ghost  !  " 
[  224  ] 


Till,  uttering  one  fearful  yell, 
He  stumbled  at  the  base  and  fell 
Where  Anubis  was  at  his  side, 
And,  by  the  god  of  death,  he  died. 

The  wife  of  Thothmes  learned  his  tale 
First  from  the  "  Memphis  Evening  Mail," 
And  called  her  son,  and  told  their  woe  ; 
"  Alas  !  "  said  she, "  I  told  him  so  ! 
Oh,  think  upon  these  awful  things 
And  mount  not  on  the  graves  of  kings  ! 
A  pyramid  is  strange  to  see, 
Though  only  at  its  base  you  be." 

Anonymous. 

THE  STORY  OF  CRUEL  PSAMTEK 

HERE  is  cruel  Psamtek,  see. 
Such  a  wicked  boy  was  he  ! 
Chased  the  ibis  round  about, 
Plucked  its  longest  feathers  out, 
Stamped  upon  the  sacred  scarab 
Like  an  unbelieving  Arab, 
Put  the  dog  and  cat  to  pain, 
Making  them  to  howl  again. 
Only  think  what  he  would  do  — 
Tease  the  awful  Apis  too  ! 
Basking  by  the  sacred  Nile 
Lay  the  trusting  crocodile  ; 
Cruel  Psamtek  crept  around  him, 
Laughed  to  think  how  he  had  found  him, 
[15]  [225] 


A   Nonsense  Anthology 

With  his  pincers  seized  his  tail, 
Made  the  holy  one  to  wail ; 
Till  a  priest  of  Isis  came, 
Called  the  wicked  boy  by  name, 
Shut  him  in  a  pyramid, 
Where  his  punishment  was  hid. 
—  But  the  crocodile  the  while 
Bore  the  pincers  up  the  Nile  — 
Here  the  scribe  who  taught  him  letters, 
And  respect  for  all  his  betters, 
Gave  him  many  a  heavy  task, 
Horrid  medicines  from  a  flask, 
While  on  bread  and  water,  too, 
Bitter  penance  must  he  do. 

The  Crocodile  is  blythe  and  gay, 
With  friends  and  family  at  play, 
And  cries,  "  O  blessed  Land  of  Nile, 
Where  sacred  is  the  crocodile, 
Where  no  ill  deed  unpunished  goes, 
And  man  himself  rewards  our  foes  !  " 

Anonymous. 

THE   CUMBERBUNCE 

I  STROLLED  beside  the  shining  sea, 
I  was  as  lonely  as  could  be  ; 
No  one  to  cheer  me  in  my  walk 
But  stones  and  sand,  which  cannot  talk  — 
Sand  and  stones  and  bits  of  shell, 
Which  never  have  a  thing  to  tell. 

By  permission  of  Life  Publishing  Co.  ;  from  "Life,"  copyright. 
[226] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

But  as  I  sauntered  by  the  tide 
I  saw  a  something  at  my  side, 
A  something  green,  and  blue,  and  pink, 
And  brown,  and  purple,  too,  I  think. 
I  would  not  say  how  large  it  was ; 
I  would  not  venture  that,  because 
It  took  me  rather  by  surprise, 
And  I  have  not  the  best  of  eyes. 


Should  you  compare  it  to  a  cat, 
I  'd  say  it  was  as  large  as  that ; 
Or  should  you  ask  me  if  the  thing 
Was  smaller  than  a  sparrow's  wing, 
I  should  be  apt  to  think  you  knew, 
And  simply  answer,  "  Very  true  !  " 


Well,  as  I  looked  upon  the  thing, 
It  murmured,  "  Please,  sir,  can  I  sing  ?  " 
And  then  I  knew  its  name  at  once  — 
It  plainly  was  a  Cumberbunce. 


You  are  amazed  that  I  could  tell 

The  creature's  name  so  quickly  ?     Well, 

I  knew  it  was  not  a  paper-doll, 

A  pencil  or  a  parasol, 

A  tennis-racket  or  a  cheese, 

And,  as  it  was  not  one  of  these, 

And  I  am  not  a  perfect  dunce  — 

It  had  to  be  a  Cumberbunce! 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

With  pleading  voice  and  tearful  eye 

It  seemed  as  though  about  to  cry. 

It  looked  so  pitiful  and  sad 

It  made  me  feel  extremely  bad. 

My  heart  was  softened  to  the  thing 

That  asked  me  if  it,  please,  could  sing. 

Its  little  hand  I  longed  to  shake, 

But,  oh,  it  had  no  hand  to  take  ! 

I  bent  and  drew  the  creature  near, 

And  whispered  in  its  pale  blue  ear, 

"  What  !  Sing,  my  Cumberbunce  ?  You  can  ! 

Sing  on,  sing  loudly,  little  man  !  " 

The  Cumberbunce,  without  ado, 
Gazed  sadly  on  the  ocean  blue, 
And,  lifting  up  its  little  head, 
In  tones  of  awful  longing,  said : 

"  Oh,  I  would  sing  of  mackerel  skies, 

And  why  the  sea  is  wet, 
Of  jelly-fish  and  conger-eels, 

And  things  that  I  forget. 
And  I  would  hum  a  plaintive  tune 

Of  why  the  waves  are  hot 
As  water  boiling  on  a  stove, 

Excepting  that  they  're  not ! 

"  And  I  would  sing  of  hooks  and  eyes, 

And  why  the  sea  is  slant, 
And  gayly  tips  the  little  ships, 

Excepting  that  I  can't ! 
[228] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

I  never  sang  a  single  song, 

I  never  hummed  a  note. 
There  is  in  me  no  melody, 

No  music  in  my  throat. 

"  So  that  is  why  I  do  not  sing 

Of  sharks,  or  whales,  or  anything  !  " 

I  looked  in  innocent  surprise, 

My  wonder  showing  in  my  eyes. 

41  Then  why,  O,  Cumberbunce,"  I  cried, 

"  Did  you  come  walking  at  my  side 

And  ask  me  if  you,  please,  might  sing, 

When  you  could  not  warble  anything  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  ask  permission,  sir, 

I  really  did  not,  I  aver. 

You,  sir,  misunderstood  me,  quite. 

I  did  not  ask  you  if  I  might. 

Had  you  correctly  understood, 

You  'd  know  I  asked  you  if  I  could. 

So,  as  I  cannot  sing  a  song, 

Your  answer,  it  is  plain,  was  wrong. 

The  fact  I  could  not  sing  I  knew, 

But  wanted  your  opinion,  too." 

A  voice  came  softly  o'er  the  lea. 

"  Farewell !   my  mate  is  calling  me  !  " 

I  saw  the  creature  disappear, 
Its  voice,  in  parting,  smote  my  ear  — 
"  I  thought  all  people  understood 
The  difference  'twixt  '  might '  and  c  could  ' !  " 

Paul  West. 
[  229] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THE   AHKOND   OF   SWAT 


w 


HO,   or  why,  or  which,  or  what, 

Is  the  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 


Is  he  tall  or  short,  or  dark  or  fair  ? 
Does  he  sit  on  a  stool  or  sofa  or  chair,          or  Squat, 

The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

Is  he  wise  or  foolish,  young  or  old  ? 
Does  he  drink  his  soup  and  his  coffee  cold,      or  Hot, 

The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

Does  he  sing  or  whistle,  jabber  or  talk, 
And  when  riding  abroad  does  he  gallop  or  walk, 

or  Trot, 
The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

Does  he  wear  a  turban,  a  fez  or  a  hat  ? 
Does  he  sleep  on  a  mattress,  a  bed  or  a  mat, 

or  a  Cot, 

The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

• 

When  he  writes  a  copy  in  round-hand  size, 
Does  he  cross  his  t's  and  finish  his  i's 

with  a  Dot, 
The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

Can  he  write  a  letter  concisely  clear, 
Without  a  speck  or  a  smudge  or  smear          or  Blot, 

The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 
[  230] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Do  his  people  like  him  extremely  well  ? 
Or  do  they,  whenever  they  can,  rebel,          or  Plot, 

At  the  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 


If  he  catches  them  tnen,  either  old  or  young, 
Does  he  have  them  chopped  in  pieces  or  hung, 

or  Shot, 
The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

Do  his  people  prig  in  the  lanes  or  park  ? 
Or  even  at  times,  when  days  are  dark,          Garotte  ? 
Oh,  the  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

Does  he  study  the  wants  of  his  own  dominion  ? 
Or  does  n't  he  care  for  public  opinion  a  Jot, 

The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

To  amuse  his  mind  do  his  people  show  him 
Pictures,  or  any  one's  last  new  poem,         or  What, 
For  the  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 


At  night  if  he  suddenly  screams  and  wakes, 
Do  they  bring  him  only  a  few  small  cakes, 

or  a  Lot, 
For  the  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

Does  he  live  on  turnips,  tea  or  tripe, 
Does  he  like  his  shawl  to  be  marked  with  a  stripe 

or  a  Dot, 
The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 


A    Nonsense   Anthology 

Does  he  like  to  lie  on  his  back  in  a  boat 
Like  the  lady  who  lived  in  that  isle  remote, 

Shalott. 
The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 


Is  he  quiet,  or  always  making  a  fuss  ? 

Is  his  steward  a  Swiss  or  a  Swede  or  a  Russ, 

or  a  Scot, 
The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 


Does  he  like  to  sit  by  the  calm  blue  wave  ? 
Or  to  sleep  and  snore  in  a  dark  green  cave, 

or  a  Grott, 
The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

Does  he  drink  small  beer  from  a  silver  jug  ? 
Or  a  bowl  ?  or  a  glass  ?  or  a  cup  ?  or  a  mug  ? 

or  a  Pot, 
The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 


Does  he  beat  his  wife  with  a  gold-topped  pipe, 
When  she  lets  the  gooseberries  grow  too  ripe, 

or  Rot, 
The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

Does  he  wear  a  white  tie  when  he  dines  with  his 

friends, 

And  tie  it  neat  in  a  bow  with  ends,          or  a  Knot, 

The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 
[  232  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Does  he  like  new  cream,  and  hate  mince-pies  ? 
When  he  looks  at  the  sun  does  he  wink  his  eyes, 

or  Not, 
The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 


Does  he  teach  his  subjects  to  roast  and  bake  ? 
Does  he  sail  about  on  an  inland  lake, 

in  a  Yacht, 
The  Ahkond  of  Swat  ? 

Some  one,  or  nobody  knows  I  wot 
Who  or  which  or  why  or  what 

Is  the  Ahkond  of  Swat ! 

Edward  Lear. 


A   THRENODY 


WHAT,  what,  what, 
What 's  the  news  from  Swat  ? 
Sad  news, 
Bad  news, 

Comes  by  the  cable  led 
Through  the  Indian  Ocean's  bed, 
Through  the  Persian  Gulf,  the  Red 
Sea  and  the  Med- 
iterranean —  he  's  dead  ; 
The  Ahkoond  is  dead  ! 
[233] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

For  the  Ahkoond  I  mourn, 

Who  would  n't  ? 
He  strove  to  disregard  the  message  stern, 

But  he  Ahkood  n't. 
Dead,  dead,  dead  ; 

(Sorrow  Swats  !) 

Swats  wha  hae  wi'  Ahkoond  bled, 
Swats  whom  he  hath  often  led 
Onward  to  a  gory  bed, 

Or  to  Victory, 

As  the  case  might  be, 
Sorrow  Swats  ! 

Tears  shed, 

Tears  shed  like  water, 
Your  great  Ahkoond  is  dead  ! 

That  Swats  the  matter  ! 


Mourn,  city  of  Swat  ! 
Your  great  Ahkoond  is  not, 
But  lain  'mid  worms  to  rot. 
His  mortal  part  alone,  his  soul  was  caught 
(Because  he  was  a  good  Ahkoond) 
Up  to  the  bosom  of  Mahound. 
Though  earthly  walls  his  frame  surround 
(Forever  hallowed  be  the  ground  !  ) 
And  sceptics  mock  the  lowly  mound 
And  say  "  He  's  now  of  no  Ahkoond  !  " 

His  soul  is  in  the  skies  — 
The  azure  skies  that  bend  above  his  loved 
Metropolis  of  Swat. 
[234] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

He  sees  with  larger,  other  eyes, 
Athwart  all  earthly  mysteries  — 
He  knows  what 's  Swat. 

Let  Swat  bury  the  great  Ahkoond 

With  a  noise  of  mourning  and  of  lamentation  ! 
Let  Swat  bury  the  great  Ahkoond 

With  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  the  Swattish 

nation  ! 

Fallen  is  at  length 
Its  tower  of  strength, 
Its  sun  is  dimmed  ere  it  had  nooned  ; 
Dead  lies  the  great  Ahkoond, 

The  great  Ahkoond  of  Swat 
Is  not ! 

George  Thomas  Lanigan, 


DIRGE   OF   THE   MOOLLA 
OF   KOTAL 

Rival  of  the  Akhoond  of  Swat 


ALAS,  unhappy  land  ;   ill-fated  spot 
Kotal  —  though  where  or  what 
On  earth  Kotal  is,  the  bard  has  forgot ; 
Further  than  this  indeed  he  knoweth  not  — 
It  borders  upon  Swat ! 

[235] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


ii 

When  sorrows  come,  they  come  not  single  spies, 

But  in  battal- 
ions :  the  gloom  that  lay  on  Swat  now  lies 

Upon  Kotal, 

On  sad  Kotal,  whose  people  ululate 
P'or  their  loved  Moolla  late. 
Put  away  his  little  turban, 
And  his  narghileh  embrowned, 
The  lord  of  Kotal  —  rural  urban  — 
'S  gone  unto  his  last  Akhoond, 
'S  gone  to  meet  his  rival  Swattan, 
'S  gone,  indeed,  but  not  forgotten. 

in 

His  rival,  but  in  what  ? 

Wherein  did  the  deceased  Akhoond  of  Swat 

Kotal's  lamented  Moolla  late, 

As  it  were,  emulate  ? 

Was  it  in  the  tented  field 

With  crash  of  sword  on  shield, 

While  backward  meaner  champions  reeled 

And  loud  the  tom-tom  pealed  ? 

Did  they  barter  gash  for  scar 

With  the  Persian  scimetar 

Or  the  Afghanistee  tulwar, 

While  loud  the  tom-tom  pealed  — 

While  loud  the  tom-tom  pealed, 

And  the  jim-jam  squealed, 

And  champions  less  well  heeled 

Their  war-horses  wheeled 

[236] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

And  fled  the  presence  of  these  mortal  big  bugs  o' 

the  field  ? 

Was  Kotal's  proud  citadel  — 
Bastioned,  and  demi-luned, 
Beaten  down  with  shot  and  shell 
By  the  guns  of  the  Akhoond  ? 
Or  were  wails  despairing  caught,  as 
The  burghers  pale  of  Swat 
Cried  in  panic,  "  Moolla  ad  Portas  "  ? 

—  Or  what  ? 

Or  made  each  in  the  cabinet  his  mark 
Kotalese  GortschakofF,  Swattish  Bismarck  ? 
Did  they  explain  and  render  hazier 
The  policies  of  Central  Asia  ? 
Did  they  with  speeches  from  the  throne, 

Wars  dynastic, 
Ententes  cordiales, 
Between  Swat  and  Kotal; 
Holy  alliances, 
And  other  appliances 
Of     statesmen     with     morals      and     consciences 

plastic 

Come  by  much  more  than  their  own  ? 
Made  they  mots,  as  "  There  to-day  are 
No  more  Himalayehs," 
Or,  if  you  prefer  it,  "There  to-day  are 
No  more  Himalaya  "  ? 
Or,  said  the  Akhoond,  u  Sah, 
L'fitat  de  Swat  c'est  moi "  ? 
Khabu,  did  there  come  great  fe>- 
On  thy  Khabuldozed  Ameer 

Ali  Shere  ? 

[237] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Or  did  the  Khan  of  far 

Kashgar 

Tremble  at  the  menace  hot 
OftheMoollaof  Kotal, 
"  I  will  extirpate  thee,  pal 
Of  my  foe  the  Akhoond  of  Swat "  ? 

Who  knows 

Of  Moolla  and  Akhoond  aught  more  than  I  did  ? 
Namely,  in  life  they  rivals  were,  or  foes, 
And  in  their  deaths  not  very  much  divided  ? 
If  any  one  knows  it, 
Let  him  disclose  it ! 

George   Thomas  Lanigan. 


RUSSIAN   AND   TURK 

r  I  ^HERE  was  a  Russian  came  over  the  sea, 
Just  when  the  war  was  growing  hot  j 
And  his  name  it  was  Tjalikavakaree- 
Karindobrolikanahudarot- 
Shibkadirova- 
Ivarditztova 
Sanilik 
Danerik 
Varagobhot. 

A  Turk  was  standing  upon  the  shore- 
Right  where  the  terrible  Russian  crossed, 

And  he  cried  :  "Bismillah  !   I  'm  Ab-El  Kor- 
Bazarou-Kilgonautosgobross- 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Getfinpravadi- 
Kligekoladji 
Grivino 
Blivido- 
Jenikodosk  ! 

So  they  stood  like  brave  men  long  and  well ; 

And  they  called  each  other  their  proper  names, 
Till  the  lockjaw  seized  them,  and  where  they  fell 
They  buried  them  both  by  the  Irdesholmmes 
Kalatalustchuk 
Mischtaribusiclup- 
Bulgari- 
Dulbary- 
Sagharimsing. 

Anonymous. 


LINES   TO    MISS   FLORENCE 
HUNTINGDON 


SWEET  maiden  of  Passamaquoddy, 
Shall  we  seek  for  commui.ion  of  souls 
Where  the  deep  Mississippi  meanders, 
Or  the  distant  Saskatchewan  rolls  ? 

Ah  no,  —  for  in  Maine  I  will  find  thee 

A  sweetly  sequestrated  nook, 
Where  the  far-winding  Skoodoowabskooksis 

Conjoins  with  the  Skoodoowabskook. 
[  239] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

There  wander  two  beautiful  rivers, 
With  many  a  winding  and  crook ; 

The  one  is  the  Skoodoowabskooksis, 
The  other —  the  Skoodoowabskook. 

Ah,  sweetest  of  haunts  !  though  unmentioned 

In  geography,  atlas,  or  book, 
How  fair  is  the  Skoodoowabskooksis, 

When  joining  the  Skoodoowabskook  ! 

Our  cot  shall  be  close  by  the  waters 
Within  that  sequestrated  nook  — 

Reflected  in  Skoodoowabskooksis 
And  mirrored  in  Skoodoowabskook. 


You  shall  sleep  to  the  music  of  leaflets, 
By  zephyrs  in  wantonness  shook, 

And  dream  of  the  Skoodoowabskooksis, 
And,  perhaps,  of  the  Skoodoowabskook. 

When  awaked  by  the  hens  and  the  roosters, 
Each  morn,  you  shall  joyously  look 

On  the  junction  of  Skoodoowabskooksis 
With  the  soft  gliding  Skoodoowabskook. 

Your  food  shall  be  fish  from  the  waters, 
Drawn  forth  on  the  point  of  a  hook, 

From  murmuring  Skoodoowabskooksis, 
Or  wandering  Skoodoowabskook ! 
[  240] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Vou  shall  quaff  the  most  sparkling  of  water, 
Drawn  forth  from  a  silvery  brook 

Which  flows  to  the  Skoodoowabskooksis, 
And  then  to  the  Skoodoowabskook  ! 

And  you  shall  preside  at  the  banquet, 

And  I  will  wait  on  thee  as  cook ; 
And  we  '11  talk  of  the  Skoodoowabskooksis, 

And  sing  of  the  Skoodoowabskook  ! 

Let  others  sing  loudly  of  Saco, 
Of  Quoddy,  and  Tattamagouche, 

Of  Kennebeccasis,  and  Quaco, 
Of  iMerigonishe,  and  Buctouche, 

Of  Nashwaak,  and  Magaguadavique, 

Or  Memmerimammericook,  — 
There  's  none  like  the  Skoodoowabskooksis, 

Excepting  the  Skoodoowabskook  ! 

Anonymous. 


COBBE'S   PROPHECIES 

WHEN  the  day  and  the  night  do  meete 
And  the  houses  are  even  with  the  streete  : 
And  the  fire  and  the  water  agree, 
And  blinde  men  have  power  to  see  : 
When  the  Wolf  and  the  Lambe  lie  down  togither, 
And  the  blasted  trees  will  not  wither : 
When  the  flood  and  the  ebbe  run  one  way, 
And  the  Sunne  and  the  Moone  are  at  a  stay  ; 
['fi]  [241] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

When  Age  and  Youth  are  all  one, 
And  the  Miller  creepes  through  the  Mill-stone: 
When  the  Ram  butts  the  Butcher  on  the  head, 
And  the  living  are  buried  with  the  dead. 
When  the  Cobler  doth  worke  without  his  ends, 
And  the  Cutpurse  and  the  Hangman  are  friends: 
Strange  things  will  then  be  to  see, 
But  I  think  it  will  never  be ! 

— 1614. 


AN   UNSUSPECTED   FACT 

IF  down  his  throat  a  man  should  choose 
In  fun,  to  jump  or  slide, 
He  'd  scrape  his  shoes  against  his  teeth, 
Nor  dirt  his  own  inside. 
But  if  his  teeth  were  lost  and  gone, 
And  not  a  stump  to  scrape  upon, 
He  'd  see  at  once  how  very  pat 
His  tongue  lay  there  by  way  of  mat, 
And  he  would  wipe  his  feet  on  that! 

Edward  Cannon. 


THE   SORROWS   OF   WERTHER 

WERTHER  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter ; 
Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 
[242  ] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sigh'd  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boil'd  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 

Like  a  well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

NONSENSE   VERSES 

LAZY-BONES,  lazy-bones,  wake  up  and  peep  ! 
The  cat's  in  the  cupboard,  your  mother's 
asleep. 

There  you  sit  snoring,  forgetting  her  ills ; 
Who  is  to  give  her  her  Bolus  and  Pills  ? 
Twenty  fine  Angels  must  come  into  town, 
All  for  to  help  you  to  make  your  new  gown  : 
Dainty  aerial  Spinsters  and  Singers  ; 
Are  n't  you  ashamed  to  employ  such  white  fingers  ? 
Delicate  hands,  unaccustom'd  to  reels, 
To  set  'em  working  a  poor  body's  wheels  ? 
Why  they  came  down  is  to  me  all  a  riddle, 
And  left  Hallelujah  broke  off  in  the  middle : 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Jove's  Court,  and  the  Presence  angelical,  cut  — 
To  eke  out  the  work  of  a  lazy  young  slut. 
Angel-duck,  Angel-duck,  winged  and  silly, 
Pouring  a  watering-pot  over  a  lily, 
Gardener  gratuitous,  careless  of  pelf, 
Leave  her  to  water  her  lily  herself, 
Or  to  neglect  it  to  death  if  she  chuse  it : 
Remember  the  loss  is  her  own  if  she  lose  it. 

Charles  Lamb. 


THE  NOBLE  TUCK-MAN 

AMERICUS,  as  he  did  wend 
With  A.  J.  Mortimer,  his  chum, 
The  two  were  greeted  by  a  friend, 
"  And  how  are  you,  boys,  Hi,  Ho,  Hum  ? " 

He  spread  a  note  so  crisp,  so  neat 
(Ho,  and  Hi,  and  tender  Hum), 

"  If  you  of  this  a  fifth  can  eat 

I  '11  give  you  the  remainder.      Come !  " 

To  the  tuck-shop  three  repair, 
(Ho,  and  Hum,  and  pensive  Hi), 

One  looks  on  to  see  all 's  fair, 
Two  call  out  for  hot  mince-pie. 

Thirteen  tarts,  a  few  Bath  buns 
(Hi,  and  Hum,  and  gorgeous  Ho), 

Lobster  cakes  (the  butter'd  ones), 
All  at  once  they  cry,  "  No  go." 

r  244] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Then  doth  tuck-man  smile.     "  Them  there 

(Ho,  and  Hi,  and  futile  Hum) 
fellies  three  and  sixpence  air, 

Use  of  spoons  an  equal  sum." 

Three  are  rich.     Sweet  task  't  is  o'er, 
"  Tuckman,  you  're  a  brick,"  they  cry, 

Wildly  then  shake  hands  all  four 
(Hum  and  Ho,  the  end  is  Hi). 

Jean  Inge  low. 


THE   PESSIMIST* 


NOTHING  to  do  but  work, 
Nothing  to  eat  but  food, 
Nothing  to  wear  but  clothes 
To  keep  one  from  going  nude. 

Nothing  to  breathe  but  air, 
Quick  as  a  flash  't  is  gone ; 

Nowhere  to  fall  but  off, 
Nowhere  to  stand  but  on. 

Nothing  to  comb  but  hair, 
Nowhere  to  sleep  but  in  bed, 

Nothing  to  weep  but  tears, 
Nothing  to  bury  but  dead. 

*  By  permission  of  Forbes  &  Co.  ;  from  "Ben  King's  Verses,' 
copyright,  1894,  1898. 

[245] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Nothing  to  sing  but  songs, 

Ah,  well,  alas  !  alack  ! 
Nowhere  to  go  but  out, 

Nowhere  to  come  but  back. 

Nothing  to  see  but  sights, 

Nothing  to  quench  but  thirst, 

Nothing  to  have  but  what  we've  got ; 
Thus  thro'  life  we  are  cursed. 

Nothing  to  strike  but  a  gait ; 

Everything  moves  that  goes. 
Nothing  at  all  but  common  sense 

Can  ever  withstand  these  woes. 


Ben  King. 


THE  MODERN   HIAWATHA 

HE  killed  the  noble  Mudjokivis. 
Of  the  skin  he  made  him  mittens, 
Made  them  with  the  fur  side  inside, 
Made  them  with  the  skin  side  outside. 
He,  to  get  the  warm  side  inside, 
Put  the  inside  skin  side  outside ; 
He,  to  get  the  cold  side  outside, 
Put  the  warm  side  fur  side  inside. 
That 's  why  he  put  the  fur  side  inside, 
Why  he  put  the  skin  side  outside, 
Why  he  turned  them  inside  outside. 

Anonymsus. 
[246] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


SAID  Folly  to  Wisdom, 
"  Pray,  where  are  we  going  ? " 
Said  Wisdom  to  Folly, 
"  There 's  no  way  of  knowing." 

Said  Folly  to  Wisdom, 

"  Then  what  shall  we  do  ?  " 

Said  Wisdom  to  Folly, 
"  I  thought  to  ask  you." 

Tudor  Jenks. 

UNCLE    SIMON   AND    UNCLE    JIM 

UNCLE  Simon  he 
Clum  up  a  tree 
To  see  what  he  could  sec 
When  presentlee 
Uncle  Jim 

Clum  up  beside  of  him 
And  squatted  down  by  he. 

Artemus  Ward. 

POOR   DEAR  GRANDPAPA 


w 


HAT  is  the  matter  with  Grandpapa  ? 

What  can  the  matter  be  ? 
He  's  broken  his  leg  in  trying  to  spell 
Tommy  without  a  T. 

D'  4rcy  W,  Thompson. 

*  By  permission  of  the  author. 
[247] 


A   Nonsense    Anthology 


THE  SEA-SERPENT 

ALL  bones  but  yours  will  rattle  when  I  say 
I  'm  the  sea-serpent  from  America. 
Mayhap  you  've  heard  that  I  've  been  round 

the  world  ; 

I  guess  I  'm  round  it  now,  Mister,  twice  curled. 
Of  all  the  monsters  through  the  deep  that  splash, 
I  'm  "  number  one  "  to  all  immortal  smash. 
When  I  lie  down  and  would  my  length  unroll, 
There  ar'  n't   half  room  enough   'twixt   pole  and 

pole. 

In  short,  I  grow  so  long  that  I  've  a  notion 
I  must  be  measured  soon  for  a  new  ocean. 

Plancbe. 


I  AM  a  peevish  student,  I ; 
My  star  is  gone  from  yonder  sky. 
I  think  it  went  so  high  at  first 
That  it  just  went  and  gone  and  burst. 

Anonymous. 

THE   MONKEY'S   WEDDING 

THE  monkey  married  the  Baboon's  sister, 
Smacked  his  lips  and  then  he  kissed  her, 
He  kissed  so  hard  he  raised  a  blister. 
She  set  up  a  yell 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

The  bridesmaid  stuck  on  some  court  plaster, 
It  stuck  so  fast  it  could  n't  stick  faster, 
Surely  't  was  a  sad  disaster, 
But  it  soon  got  well. 

What  do  you  think  the  bride  was  dressed  in  ? 
White  gauze  veil  and  a  green  glass  breast-pin, 
Red  kid  shoes  —  she  was  quite  interesting, 

She  was  quite  a  belle. 

The  bridegroom  swell'd  with  a  blue  shirt  collar^ 
Black  silk  stock  that  cost  a  dollar, 
Large  false  whiskers  the  fashion  to  follow  ; 

He  cut  a  monstrous  swell. 

What  do  you  think  they  had  for  supper  ? 
Black-eyed  peas  and  bread  and  butter, 
Ducks  in  the  duck-house  all  in  a  flutter, 

Pickled  oysters  too. 
Chestnuts  raw  and  boil'd  and  roasted, 
Apples  sliced  and  onions  toasted, 
Music  in  the  corner  posted, 

Waiting  for  the  cue. 

What  do  you  think  was  the  tune  they  danced  to  ? 
"  The  drunken  Sailor"  —  sometimes  "Jim  Crow," 
Tails  in  the  way  —  and  some  got  pinched,  too, 

'Cause  they  were  too  long. 
What  do  you  think  they  had  for  a  fiddle  ? 
An  old  Banjo  with  a  hole  in  the  middle, 
A  Tambourine  made  out  of  a  riddle, 

And  that 's  the  end  of  my  song. 

Anonymous. 

[  249] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


MR.  FINNEY'S   TURNIP 

MR.  FINNEY  had  a  turnip 
And  it  grew  and  it  grew ; 
And  it  grew  behind  the  barn, 
And  that  turnip  did  no  harm. 

There  it  grew  and  it  grew 
Till  it  could  grow  no  longer  j 

Then  his  daughter  Lizzie  picked  it 
And  put  it  in  the  cellar. 

There  it  lay  and  it  lay 

Till  it  began  to  rot  ; 
And  his  daughter  Susie  took  it 

And  put  it  in  the  pot. 

And  they  boiled  it  and  boiled  it 

As  long  as  they  were  able, 
And  then  his  daughters  took  it 

And  put  it  on  the  table. 

Mr.  Finney  and  his  wife 

They  sat  down  to  sup ; 
And  they  ate  and  they  ate 

And  they  ate  that  turnip  up. 

Anonymous. 


A   Nonsense    Anthology 


THE   SUN 

Sun,  yon  glorious  orb  of  day, 
Ninety-four  million  miles  away, 
Will  keep  revolving  in  its  orbit 
Till  heat  and  motion  reabsorb  it. 

J.  Davis. 

THE   AUTUMN   LEAVES 


Autumn  leaves  are  falling, 
Are  falling  here  and  there. 
They  're  falling  through  the  atmosphere 
And  also  through  the  air. 

Anonymous. 


IN   THE  NIGHT 

HE  night  was  growing  old 

As  she  trudged  through  snow  and  sleet ; 
Her  nose  was  long  and  cold, 
And  her  shoes  were  full  of  feet. 

Anonymous. 


T 


POOR   BROTHER 

OW  very  sad  it  is  to  think 

Our  poor  benighted  brother 
Should  have  his  head  upon  one  end, 
His  feet  upon  the  other. 

Anonymous. 


H 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THE   BOY* 

DOWN  through  the  snow-drifts  in  the  street 
With  blustering  joy  he  steers  ; 
His  rubber  boots  are  full  of  feet 
And  his  tippet  full  of  ears. 

Eugene  Field. 

THE   SEA 

BEHOLD  the  wonders  of  the  mighty  deep, 
Where  crabs  and  lobsters  learn  to  creep, 
And  little  fishes  learn  to  swim, 
And  clumsy  sailors  tumble  in. 

Anonymous. 

THERE   WAS   A   LITTLE  GIRL 


was  a  little  girl, 
And  she  had  a  little  curl 

Right  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead. 
When  she  was  good 
She  was  very,  very  good, 

And  when  she  was  bad  she  was  horrid. 

One  day  she  went  upstairs, 
When  her  parents,  unawares, 

In  the  kitchen  were  occupied  with  meals 
And  she  stood  upon  her  head 
In  her  little  trundle-bed, 

And  then  began  hooraying  with  her  heels. 

*  From  "  Sharps  and  Flats,"  copyright,  1900,  by  Julia  Sutherland 
Field. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Her  mother  heard  the  noise, 
And  she  thought  it  was  the  boys 

A-playing  at  a  combat  in  the  attic  ; 
But  when  she  climbed  the  stair, 
And  found  Jemima  there, 

She  took  and  she  did  spank  her  most  emphatic. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


FIN   DE   SIECLE 

HE  sorry  world  is  sighing  now ; 


T_      _ 
La  Grippe  is  at  the  door; 
And  many  folks  are  dying  now 
Who  never  died  before. 

Newton  Mackintosh. 

MARY   JANE 

MARY  JANE  was  a  farmer's  daughter, 
Mary  Jane  did  what  she  oughter. 
She  fell  in  love  —  but  all  in  vain; 
Oh,  poor  Mary  !   oh,  poor  Jane! 

Anonymous. 

TENDER-HEARTEDNESS  * 

T    ITTLE  Willie,  in  the  best  of  sashes, 

Fell  in  the  fire  and  was  burned  to  ashes. 
^-^   By  and  by  the  room  grew  chilly, 
But  no  one  liked  to  poke  up  Willie. 

Col.  D.  Streamer. 

*  By  permission  of  R.  H.  Russell ;  from  "  Ruthless  Rhymes  for 
Heartless  Homes,"  copyright,  1901. 

[  253] 


I/ 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


IMPETUOUS   SAMUEL* 


s 


AM  had  spirits  naught  could  check, 

And  to-day,  at  breakfast,  he 
Broke  his  baby  sister's  neck, 
So  he  sha'n't  have  jam  for  tea  ! 

Col.  D.  Streamer. 


MISFORTUNES   NEVER   COME 
SINGLY  * 

MAKING  toast  at  the  fireside, 
Nurse  fell  in  the  grate  and  died; 
And,  what  makes  it  ten  times  worse, 
All  the  toast  was  burned  with  Nurse. 

Col.  D.  Streamer. 


I 


AUNT   ELIZA* 

N  the  drinking-well 

(Which  the  plumber  built  her) 
Aunt  Eliza  fell,  — 
We  must  buy  a  filter. 

Col.  D.  Streamer. 

SUSAN 

SUSAN  poisoned  her  grandmother's  tea ; 
Grandmamma  died  in  agonee. 
Susan's  papa  was  greatly  vexed, 
And  he  said  to  Susan,  "  My  dear,  what  next  ? " 

Anonymous. 

*  By  permission  of  R.  H.   Russell ;  from  "Ruthless  Rhymes  fo* 
Heartless  Homes,"  copyright,  1901. 

[254] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


BABY   AND   MARY 

BABY  sat  on  the  window-seat ; 
Mary  pushed  Baby  into  the  street ; 
Baby's  brains  were  dashed  out  in  the  "  arey," 
And  mother  held  up  her  forefinger  at  Mary. 

Anonymous. 


THE   SUNBEAM 

I  DINED  with  a  friend  in  the  East,  one  day, 
Who  had  no  window-sashes ; 
A  sunbeam  through  the  window  came 
And  burnt  his  wife  to  ashes. 
'"  John,  sweep  your  mistress  away,"  said  he, 
"4  And  bring  fresh  wine  for  my  friend  and  me." 

Anonymous. 

LITTLE   WILLIE 


LITTLE  Willie  hung  his  sister, 
She  was  dead  before  we  missed  her. 
"  Willie  's  always  up  to  tricks  ! 
Ain't  he  cute  ?      He 's  only  six  !  " 

Anonymous. 
[255] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


MARY   AMES 

PITY  now  poor  Mary  Ames, 
Blinded  by  her  brother  James; 
Red-hot  nails  in  her  eyes  he  poked,  — 
I  never  saw  Mary  more  provoked. 

Anonymous, 


MUDDLED   METAPHORS 

By  a  Moore- os e  Melodist 


0 


H,  ever  thus  from  childhood's  hour, 

I  've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  recede ! 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower 
That  did  n't  trump  its  partner's  lead. 


I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  dappled  hide, 

But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 
It  fell  upon  the  buttered  side. 

I  never  taught  a  cockatoo 

To  whistle  comic  songs  profound, 
But,  just  when  "  Jolly  Dogs  "  it  knew, 

It  failed  for  ninepence  in  the  pound. 

I  never  reared  a  walrus  cub 
In  my  aquarium  to  plunge, 

But,  when  it  learned  to  love  its  tub, 
It  placidly  threw  up  the  sponge  ! 
[256] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

I  never  strove  a  metaphor 

Xo  every  bosom  home  to  bring 
But  —  just  as  it  had  reached  the  door  — 

It  went  and  cut  a  pigeon's  wing ! 

Tom  Hood,  Jr. 


VILLON'S   STRAIGHT   TIP   TO 
ALL   CROSS   COVES 

"  Tout  aux  tav  ernes  et  aux  fielh  " 


you  screeve  ?  or  go  cheap-jack  ? 
Or  fake  the  broads  ?  or  fig  a  nag  ? 
Or  thimble-rig  ?  or  knap  a  yack  ? 
Or  pitch  a  snide  ?  or  smash  a  rag  ? 
Suppose  you  duff?  or  nose  and  lag? 
Or  get  the  straight,  and  land  your  pot  ? 

How  do  you  melt  the  multy  swag  ? 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

Fiddle,  or  fence,  or  mace,  or  mack  ; 

Or  moskeneer,  or  flash  the  drag  ; 
Dead-lurk  a  crib,  or  do  a  crack  ; 

Pad  with  a  slang,  or  chuck  a  fag  ; 

Bonnet,  or  tout,  or  mump  and  gag; 
Rattle  the  tats,  or  mark  the  spot  ; 

You  cannot  bag  a  single  stag; 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

C'7]  [257] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Suppose  you  try  a  different  tack, 

And  on  the  square  you  flash  your  flag? 
At  penny-a-lining  make  your  whack, 

Or  with  the  mummers  mug  and  gag  ? 

For  nix,  for  nix  the  dibbs  you  bag  ! 
At  any  graft,  no  matter  what, 

Your  merry  goblins  soon  stravag  : 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

THE  MORAL 

It 's  up  the  spout  and  Charley  Wag 
With  wipes  and  tickers  and  what  not 

Until  the  squeezer  nips  your  scrag, 
Booze  and  the  blowens  cop  the  lot. 

W.  E.  Henley. 


ODE    TO    THE    HUMAN    HEART 


BLIND  Thamyris,  and  blind  Maeonides, 
Pursue  the  triumph  and  partake  the  gale  ! 
Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees, 
To  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears, 

Like  angels'  visits,  few  and  far  between, 
Deck  the  long  vista  of  departed  years. 
[258] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  bless'd ; 

The  tenth  transmitter  of  a  foolish  face, 
Like  Aaron's  serpent,  swallows  up  the  rest, 

And  makes  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place. 

For  man  the  hermit  sigh'd,  till  woman  smiled, 
To  waft  a  feather  or  to  drown  a  fly, 

(In  wit  a  man,  simplicity  a  child,) 

With  silent  finger  pointing  to  the  sky. 

But  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread, 
Far  out  amid  the  melancholy  main  ; 

As  when  a  vulture  on  Imaus  bred, 
Dies  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain. 

Laman  Bfarcbard. 


C259] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


LIMERICKS 


r  1  ^HERE  was  an  old  person  of  Ware 
Who  rode  on  the  back  of  a  bear; 

When  they  said,  "  Does  it  trot  ? " 
He  said  :  "  Certainly  not, 
I"  's  a  Moppsikon  Floppsikon  bear." 


THERE  was  an  old  person  of  Wick, 
Who  said,  "  Tick-a-Tick,  Tick-a-Tick, 
v^nickabee,  Chickabaw," 
And  he  said  nothing  more, 
This  laconic  old  person  of  Wick. 


THERE  was  an  old  person  of  Woking, 
Whose  mind  was  perverse  and  provoking ; 

He  sate  on  a  rail, 

With  his  head  in  a  pail, 
That  illusive  old  person  of  Woking. 


THERE  was  once  a  man  with  a  beard 
Who  said,  "  It  is  just  as  I  feared  !  — 
Two  Owls  and  a  Hen, 
Four  Larks  and  a  Wren 
Have  all  built  their  nests  in  my  beard." 
[  260] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

THERE  was  an  old  man  of  Thermopylae, 
Who  never  did  anything  properly ; 

But  they  said  :  "  If  you  choose 

To  boil  eggs  in  your  shoes, 
Vou  cannot  remain  in  Thermopylae." 

THERE  was  an  Old  Man  who  said,  "  Hush  ! 
I  perceive  a  young  bird  in  this  bush  !  " 

When  they  said,  "  Is  it  small  ?  " 

He  replied,  "  Not  at  all ; 
It  is  four  times  as  big  as  the  bush  !  " 

THERE  was  an  Old  Man  who  supposed 
That  the  street  door  was  partially  closed ; 

But  some  very  large  Rats 

Ate  his  coats  and  his  hats, 
While  that  futile  Old  Gentleman  dozed. 

THERE  was  an  Old  Man  of  Leghorn, 
The  smallest  that  ever  was  born  ; 

But  quickly  snapt  up  he 

Was  once  by  a  Puppy, 
Who  devoured  that  Old  Man  of  Leghorn. 

THERE  was  an  Old  Man  of  Kamschatka 
Who  possessed  a  remarkably  fat  Cur; 
His  gait  and  his  waddle 
Were  held  as  a  model 
To  all  the  fat  dogs  in  Kamschatka. 

Edward  Lear. 
[26!] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


[From   books  printed  for  the  benefit  of  the  New  York 
Fair  in  aid  of  the  Sanitary  Commission,  1864] 

THERE  was  a  gay  damsel  of  Lynn, 
Whose  waist  was  so  charmingly  thin, 
The  dressmaker  needed 
A  microscope  —  she  did  — 
To  fit  this  slim  person  of  Lynn. 


THERE  was  a  young  lady  of  Milton, 
Who  was  highly  disgusted  with  Stilton ; 
When  offered  a  bite, 
She  said,  "  Not  a  mite  !  " 
That  suggestive  young  lady  of  Milton. 


THERE  was  a  dear  lady  of  Eden, 

Who  on  apples  was  quite  fond  of  feedin' ; 

She  gave  one  to  Adam, 

Who  said,  "  Thank  you,  Madam," 
And  then  both  skedaddled  from  Eden. 


THERE  was  a  young  lady  of  Wales, 
Who  wore  her  back  hair  in  two  tails; 
And  a  hat  on  her  head 
That  was  striped  black  and  red, 
And  studded  with  ten-penny  nails. 
[262] 


A   Nonsense  Anthology 

THERE  was  an  old  man  who  said,  "  Do 
Tell  me  how  I  'm  to  add  two  and  two  ? 

I  'm  not  very  sure 

That  it  does  n't  make  four  — 
But  I  fear  that  is  almost  too  few." 


THERE  once  was  a  man  who  said,  "  How 
Shall  I  manage  to  carry  my  cow  ? 

For  if  I  should  ask  it 

To  get  in  my  basket, 
'T  would  make  such  a  terrible  row." 

Anonymous. 


THERE  once  was  an  old  man  of  Lyme 
Who  married  three  wives  at  a  time; 
When  asked,  "  Why  a  third  ?  " 
He  replied,  "  One  's  absurd  ! 
And  bigamy,  sir,  is  a  crime." 


THERE  once  was  a  person  of  Benin, 
Who  wore  clothes  not  fit  to  be  seen  in ; 
When  told  that  he  should  n't, 
He  replied,  "Gumscrumrudent !  " 
A  word  of  inscrutable  meanin'. 
[263] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

THERE  once  was  a  girl  of  New  York 
Whose  body  was  lighter  than  cork ; 

She  had  to  be  fed 

For  six  weeks  upon  lead, 
Before  she  went  out  for  a  walk. 

Cosmo  Monkhouse. 


was  a  young  man  who  was  bitten 
By  twenty-two  cats  and  a  kitten ; 
Sighed  he,  "  It  is  clear 
My  finish  is  near; 
No  matter ;   I  '11  die  like  a  Briton  !  " 


THERE  was  a  princess  of  Bengal, 
Whose  mouth  was  exceedingly  small; 

Said  she,  "  It  would  be 

More  easy  for  me 
To  do  without  eating  at  all !  " 


THERE  was  an  old  stupid  who  wrote 
The  verses  above  that  we  quote; 

His  want  of  all  sense 

Was  something  immense, 
Which  made  him  a  person  of  note. 

Walter  Parke 
[264] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


VERS   NONSENSIQUES 

A    POTSDAM,  les  totaux  absteneurs, 
Comme  tant  d'autres  titotalleurs, 
Sont  gloutons,  omnivores, 
Nasorubicolores, 
Grands  manchons,  et  terribles  duffeurs. 

Un  vieux  due  (le  meilleur  des  epoux) 
Demandait  (en  lui  tatant  le  pouls) 

A  sa  vielle  duchesse 

(Qu'un  vieux  catarrhe  oppresse)  :  —. 
"  Et  ton  the,  t'a-t-il  ote  ta  toux  ?  " 

II  naquit  pres  de  Choisy-le-Roi ; 

Le  Latin  lui  causait  de  I'effroi ; 
Et  les  Mathematiques 
Lui  donnaient  des  coliques, 

Et  le  Grec  1'enrhumait.     Ce  fut  moi. 

II  etait  un  gendarme,  a  Nanteuil, 
Qui  n'avait  qu'une  dent  et  qu'un  oeil ; 

Mais  cet  oeil  solitaire 

Etait  plein  de  mystere  ; 
Cette  dent,  d'importance  et  d'orgueil. 

"  Cassez-vous,  cassez-vous,  cassez-vous, 
O  mer,  sur  vos  froids  gris  calloux  !  " 

Ainsi  traduisit  Laure 

Au  profit  d'Isadore 

(Bon  jeune  homme,  at  son  futur  epoux.) 
[265] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Un  marin  naufrage  (de  Doncastre) 
Pour  priere,  au  milieu  du  desastre 

Repetait  a  genoux 

Ces  mots  simples  et  doux  :  — 
41  Scintillez,  scintillez,  petit  astre  !  " 

George  du  Maurier. 


r\  "VHERE  was  a  young  man  of  Cohoes,* 
Wore  tar  on  the  end  of  his  nose ; 

When  asked  why  he  done  it, 

He  said  for  the  fun  it 
Afforded  the  men  of  Cohoes. 


Robert  J.  Burdette. 


I'D  rather  have  habits  than  clothes, 
For  that 's  where  my  intellect  shows. 
And  as  for  my  hair, 
Do  you  think  I  should  care 
To  comb  it  at  night  with  my  toes  ? 

I  WISH  that  my  Room  had  a  Floor; 
I  don't  so  much  care  for  a  Door, 
But  this  walking  around 
Without  touching  the  ground 
Is  getting  to  be  quite  a  bore ! 

Gelett  Burgess 
*  By  permission  of  the  author. 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


HWAS  an  indigent  Hen, 
Who  picked  up  a  corn  now  and  then ; 
She  had  but  one  leg 
On  which  she  could  peg, 
And  behind  her  left  ear  was  a  wen. 

Bruce  Porter. 


CLEOPATRA,    who   thought    they  maligned 
her, 
Resolved  to  reform  and  be  kinder; 
"  If,  when  pettish,"  she  said, 
"I  should  knock  off  your  head, 
Won't  you  give  me  some  gentle  remirlder  ?  " 

Newton  Mackintosh. 


WHEN  that  Seint  George  hadde  sleyne  ye 
draggon, 
He  sate  him  down  furninst  a  flaggon; 
And,  wit  ye  well, 
Within  a  spell 
He  had  a  bien  plaisaunt  jag  on. 

Anonymous. 
[267] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 


THERE  was  a  young  lady  of  Niger 
Who  smiled  as  she  rode  on  a  Tiger; 
They  came  back  from  the  ride 
With  the  lady  inside, 
And  the  smile  on  the  face  of  the  Tiger. 

Anonymous. 


r  1  AHERE  was  a  young  maid  who  said,  "  Why 
Can't  I  look  in  my  ear  with  my  eye? 
If  I  give  my  mind  to  it, 
I  'm  sure  I  can  do  it, 
You  never  can  tell  till  you  try." 

dnonynotu. 


[268] 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


ABSTEMIA Gelett  Burgess        .     .  3! 

Abstrosophy Gelett  Burgess        .      .  37 

Estivation O.  W.  Holmes       .      .  136 

Ahkond  of  Swat,  The        .      .    Edward  Lear        .      .  230 

Alone 40 

As  with  my  Hat  upon  my 

Head Dr.  Johnson     .      .      .  xxx 

Auld  Wife,  The     .      .      .      .    C.  S.  Cal-verley     .      .  192 

Aunt  Eliza Col.  D.  Streamer  .      .  254 

Autumn  Leaves,  The 251 

BABY  AND  MARY 255 

Ballade  of  the  Nurserie       .      .    Jo/in  Twig      ...  60 

Ballad  of  Bedlam 24 

Ballad  of  High  Endeavor,  A 62 

Ballad  with  an  Ancient  Refrain 65 

Bison,  The Hilaire  Belloc        .      .  209 

Bloated  Biggaboon,  The    .      .    H.  Cholmondeley-Pennell  2 1 1 

Blue  Moonshine Francis  G.  Stokes  .      .  46 

Boy,  The Eugene  Field    .      .      .  252 

Bulbul,  The O-iven  Seaman       .      .  6? 

Buz,  quoth  the  Blue  Fly    .      .    Ben  Jonson       ...  66 

CENTIPEDE,  A xxxi 

Chimpanzee,  The     ....    Oliver  Herford     .      .  199 

Chronicle,  A 155 

Classic  Ode,  A Charles  Battell  Loom  is  45 

Cobbe's  Prophecies 241 

Cock  and  the  Bull,  The     .      .    C.  S.   Calverley    .      .  165 
Collusion  between  a  Alegaiter 

and  a  Water-Snaik      .      .   J.  IV.  Morris.      .      .  143 

Companions C.  S.  Calverley     .      .  163 


A   Nonsense    Anthology 


Cossimbazar  

Henry  S.  Leigh 

43 

Cow,  The     

Oliver  Herford     . 

198 

Cruise  of  the  "P.  C.",  The  . 



*3 

Cumberbunce,  The 

Paul  West  .      .      . 

.      226 

DARWINITY Herman  Merivale      .  31 

Dinkey-Bird,  The  ....    Eugene  Field    .      .      .  218 

Dirge  of  the  Moolhi  of  Kotal      George  T.  Lanigan     •  235 

ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN,  THE  .    George  Canning    .      .  134. 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad 

Dog Oliver  Goldsmith        .  151 

Elegy  on  Madam  Blaize     .      .    Oliver  Goldsmith        .  149 

FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY   .     .    Thomas  Hood  .     .     .  131 
Famous   Ballad  of  the  Jubilee 

Cup,  The A.   T.  £>uilier-Couch  .  175 

Father  William 22 

Ferdinando  and  Elvira  .      .      .    W.  S.  Gilbert  .      .      .  160 

Fin  de  Siecle Newton  Mackintosh    .  253 

Flamingo,  The Lewis  Gaylord  Clark  201 

Forcing  a  Way 54 

Frangipanni 51 

Frog,  The Hilaire  Eelloc        .      .  207 

GENERAL  JOHN W.  S.  Gilbert  .     .     .  112 

Gentle  Alice  Brown      .      .      .    W.  S.   Gilbert  .      .      .  102 

Great  Man,  A Oliver  Goldsmith        .  148 

Guinea  Pig,  The 68 

HEN,  THE Oliver  Herford     .      .  197 

Her  Dairy Peter  Newell    .      .      .  213 

Here  is  the  Tale       ....    Anthony  C.  Deane       .  188 
Her  Polka  Dots        ....    Peter  Newell    .      .      .  212 
Higher    Pantheism    in   a    Nut- 
shell, The A.  C.  Swinburne        .  30 

Hippopotamus,  The      .      .      .    Oliver  Herford     .      .  199 

Holiday  Task,  A    ....    Gilbert  Abbott  a  Becket  137 

Hunting  of  the  Snark,  The     .    Lewis  Carroll       .      .  97 


Index  of  Titles 


Hyder  iddle  diddle  dell 73 

Hymn  to  the  Sunrise .  25 

IF 70 

If  Half  the  Road xxxiii 

If  a  Man  who  Turnips  Cries  .    Dr.  Johnson     .      .      .  xxxi 

I  Love  to  Stand xxxiii 

Imitation  of  Wordsworth  .      .    Catharine  M.  Fans/ia-ive  173 

Impetuous  Samuel    ....    Col.  D.  Streamer  .      .  254 
Incidents   in   the   Life  of  my 

Uncle  Arly       ....    Edward  Lear       .  86 

Indifference 42 

In  Immemorian Cuthbert  Bede       .  29 

In  the  Dumps 74 

In  the  Gloaming       .      .      .      .    James  C.  Bayles  .  23 

In  the  Night 251 

Invisible  Bridge,  The    .      .      .    Gelett  Burgess        .      .  196 

JABBERWOCKY Lenuis  Carroll       .     .  3 

John  Jones A.  C.  Sivinburne       .  57 

Jumblies,  The Ediuard  Lear .      .      .  83 

KEN  YE  AUGHT  o'   CAPTAIN 

GROSE Robert  Burns   ...  73 

Kindness  to  Animals                .    J.  Ashby-Sterry     .      .  203 

King  Arthur       .            73 

LAYE  OF  YE  WOODPECKORE, 

YE Henry  A.  Beers      .      .  139 

Lazy  Roof,  The       ....    Gelett  Burgess  .      .      .  197 

Like  to  the  Thundering  Tone   Bishop  Corbet        .      .  27 
LIMERICKS: 

Cleopatra,  who  thought  they 

maligned  her      .      .      .    Newton  Mackintosh    ,  267 

H  was  an  indigent  Hen        .    Bruce  Porter    .      .      .  267 
I  'd  rather  have  habits  than 

clothes Gelett  Burgess  .  .266 

I  wish  that  my  room  had  a 

door Gelett  Burgess        .      .  266 

There  once  was  a  girl  of  New 

York Cosmo  Monkhouse       .  264 

[>»]  [273] 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

LIMERICKS  —  Continued 

There  once  was  a  man  who 

said  "  How  " 163 

There  once  was  an  old  man 

of  Lyme        ....    Cosmo  Monkhouse       .      263 
There  once  was  a  person  of 

Benin Cosmo  Monkhouse  .      .      263 

There  was   a  dear    lady   of 

Eden 262 

There  was  a  gay  damsel  of 

Lynn 262 

There  was  an  old  man  in  a 

tree Edward  Lear       .     .      xxx 

There  was  an   Old    Man  of 

Kamschatka       .      .      .    Edward  Lear       .      .      261 
There  was  an  Old   Man  of 

Leghorn        ....    Edward  Lear        .      .      261 
There  was  an  old  man  of  St. 

Bees W.  S.  Gilbert  ...      xxx 

There  was   an   old   man  of 

Thermopylae      .      .      .    Edward  Lear       .      .      261 
There  was  an  old  man  who 

said  "Do" 263 

There  was  an  Old  Man  who 

said  "Hush"    .      .      .    Edward  Lear       .      .      261 
There  was  an  Old  Man  who 

supposed       ....   Edward  Lear       .     .      261 
There  was  an  old  person  of 

Ware Edward  Lear       .      .      260 

There  was  an  old  person  of 

Wick Edward  Lear       .      .      260 

There  was  an  old  person  of 

Woking        ....   Edward  Lear       .     .      260 
There   was    an    old    stupid 

who  wrote    ....    Walter  Parke  .  264 

There  was  once  a  man  with 

a  beard Edward  Lear  .      .      .      260 

There    was    a    princess     of 

Bengal Walter  Parke  .      .      .      264 


Index  of  Titles 

LIMERICKS  —  Continued 

There  was   a   small  boy  of 

Quebec Rudyard  Kipling  .      .    xxxii 

There  was   a  young  lady  of 

Milton 262 

There  was  a  young  lady  of 

Niger 268 

There  was  a  young  lady  of 

Wales 262 

There    was    a    young  maid 

who  said  "  Why  " 268 

There  was  a  young  man  at 

St.  Kitts xxv 

There  was  a  young  man  of 

Cohoes Robert  J.  Burdette     .      266 

There    was    a    young    man 

who  was  bitten  .  .  Walter  Parke  .  .  .  264 
Vers  Nonsensiques  .  .  .  George  du  Maurier  .  265 
When  that  Seint  George 

hadde  sleyne  ye  dragon 267 

Lines  by  a  Fond  Lover 53 

Lines  by  a  Medium 41 

Lines  by  a  Person  of  Quality  .    Alexander  Pope     .      .        50 
Lines  to  Miss  Florence   Hunt- 
ingdon   239 

Lines  to  a  Young  Lady      .      .   Edward  Lear       .      .        88 

Little  Billee W.  M .  Thackeray      .      114 

Little  Peach,  The 138 

Little  Willie 255 

Lobster  wooed  a  Lady  Crab,  A xxxxiii 

Lovers  and  a  Reflection      .      .    C.  S.  Cal<verley    .      .      170 

Love  Song  by  a  Lunatic 55 

Lugubrious      Whing-Whang, 

The James  W.  Riley    .      .        63 

Lunar  Stanzas H.  C.  Knight  ...        15 

MALUM   OPUS J.  Appleton  Morgan  .      135 

Man  in  the  Moon,  The      .      .    James^W.  Riley    .      .      220 
Martin  Luther  at  Potsdam       .    Barry  Pain       ,      .      ,      1 60 

['75]  - 


A   Nonsense  Anthology 

Martin  to  his  Man 74 

Mary  Ames  .                 256 

Mary  Jane 253 

Master  and  Man 72 

Mayor  of  Scuttleton,  The       .    Mary  Mapei  Dodge    .  195 

Melancholia 248 

Metaphysics Oliver  Herford     .      .  36 

Minnie  and  Winnie       .      .      .    Lord  Tennyson       .      .  194 

Misfortunes Col.  D.  Streamer  .      .  254 

Mr.  Finney's  Turnip 250 

Modern  Hiawatha,  The 246 

Monkey's  Glue,  The   .      .      .    Goldivin  Goldsmith     .  210 

Monkey's  Wedding  The 248 

Monsieur  McGinte 139 

Moon  is  up,  The 26 

Moorlands  of  the  Not 36 

Mors  labrochii 4 

Muddled  Metaphors      .      .      .    Tom  Hood,  Jr.     .      .  256 

My  Dream 28 

My  Feet Gelett  Burgess        .      .  197 

My  Home 29 

My  Recollectest  Thoughts      .    Charles  E.  Carryl      .  21 

NEPHELIDIA A.  C.  Swinburne       .  158 

Noble  Tuckman,  The        .      .   yean  Ingelo^w  .      .      .  244 

Nonsense 16 

Nonsense Thomas  Moore      .      .  47 

Nonsense  Verses       ....    Charles  Lamb  .      .      .  242 

Not  I R.  L.  Stevenson    .      .  194 

Nyum-Nyum,  The 6 

OCEAN  WANDERER,  THE 18 

Odd  to  a  Krokis 146 

Ode  to  the  Human  Heart  .      .    Laman  Blanchard      .  258 

Of  Baiting  the  Lion       .      .      .    O-iven  Seaman       .      .  206 

Oh,  my  Geraldine    .      .      .      .    F.  C.  Burnand      .      .  66 

Oh,  Weary  Mother       .      .      .    Barry  Pain      .      .      .  64 

On  the  Oxford  Carrier  .      .      .    John  Milton      .      .      .  157 

On  the  Road       ......    Tudor  Jenks    .      .      .  247 

Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat,  The  .    Edward  Lear .      .     .  59 


Index  of  Titles 

PANTHER,  THE 209 

Parson  Gray Oliver  Goldsmith        .  150 

Parterre,  The E.  H.  Palmer        .      .  56 

Personified  Sentimental,  The  .    Bret  Harte       ...  44 

Pessimist,  The Ben  King    ....  245 

Platypus,  The Oliver  Herford     .      .  199 

Pobble  who  has  no  Toes,  The  Edward  Lear       .      .  8 1 

Poor  Brother 251 

Poor  Dear  Grandpapa        .      .    D"  Arcy  W.  Thompson  247 

Psycholophon Gelett  Burgess        .      .  39 

Puer  ex  Jersey ..138 

Purple  Cow,  The    ....    Gelett  Burgess .      .      .  196 

Python,  The Hilaire  Belloc        .      .  208 

QUATRAIN 43 

RIDDLE,  A 70 

Rollicking  Mastodon,  The      .    Arthur  Macy    .      .      .  125 

Russian  and  Turk 238 

SAGE  COUNSEL A.  T.  Quiller-Couch  .  204 

Sailor's  Yarn,  A  ....  James  Jeffrey  Roche  .  120 

Sea,  The 252 

Sea-Serpent,  The  ....  Planch'e  ....  248 
She's  All  my  Fancy  Painted 

Him Lewis  Carroll  .  .  20 

She  Went  into  the  Garden  .  S.  Foote  ....  xxxi 

Shipwreck,  The  .  .  .  .  E.  H.  Palmer  .  .  1 1 8 

Silver  Question,  The  .  .  .  Oliver  Herford  .  .  127 

Sing  for  the  Garish  Eye  .  .  W.  S.  Gilbert  ...  13 
Singular  Sangfroid  of  Baby 

Bunting,  The  ....  Guy  W.  Carryl  .  129 

Some  Geese  Oliver  Herford  .  .  200 

Some  Verses  to  Snaix 147 

Song  of  Impossibilities  .  .  William  M.  Praed  .  183 

Song  of  the  Screw,  The 33 

Song  on  King  William  III 67 

Sonnet  Found  in  a  Deserted 

Madhouse 1 8 

Sorrows  of  Werther,  The  .  .  W.  M .  Thackeray  .  242 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

Spirk  Troll-Derisive      .      .      .    "James  W.  Riley    .      .  10 

Story  of  Cruel  Psamtek,  The 225 

Story  of  Prince  Agib,  The     .    W.S.Gilbert.      .      .  107 

Story  of  Pyramid  Thothmes 224. 

Story  of  the  Wild  Huntsman  .    Heinrich  Hoffman       .  222 

Sun,  The J.  Davis    ....  251 

Sunbeam,  The 255 

Superior  Nonsense  Verses 47 

Susan 254 

Swiss  Air Bret  Harte ....  64 

Sylvie  and  Bruno     ....   Lewis  Carroll       .      .  101 

TENDER-HEARTEDNESS      .      .    Col.  D.  Streamer  .     .  253 

Tender  Infant,  The      .      .      .    Dr.  "Johnson     .      .      .  xxx 

There  was  a  Frog 211 

There  was  a  Little  Girl      .      .    H.  W.  Longfellonv      .  252 

There  was  a  Monkey 67 

Three  Acres  of  Land 71 

Three  Children 69 

Three  Jovial  Huntsmen 70 

Threnody George  T.  Lanigan     .  233 

Thy  Heart 55 

Timid  Hortense       ....   Peter  Newell   .      .      .  212 

Timon  of  Archimedes  .      .      .    Charles  Battell  Loomis  39 
*T  is  Midnight  and  the  Setting 

Sun 26 

'Tis  Sweet  to  Roam 23 

To  Marie 14 

To  Mollidusta Blanche       ....  57 

Transcendentalism 41 

Trust  in  Women 186 

Turvey  Top 43 

Tweedle-dum  and  Tweedle-dee 74 

UFFIA Harriet  R.  While       .  10 

Uncle  Simon  and  Uncle  Jim    .   Artemus  Ward      .      .  247 

Unsuspected  Fact,  An        .      .    Edward  Cannon  .      .  242 

Uprising  See  the  Fitful  Lark 27 

VILLON'S  STRAIGHT  TIP       .   W.  E.  Henley  .     .     .  257 
f  a?8  ^ 


Index  of  Titles 

WALLOPING  WINDOW-BLIND, 

THE Charles  E.  Carryl  .  123 

Walrus  and  the  Carpenter,  The  Lewis  Carroll  .  .  93 

Ways  and  Means  ....  Lewis  Carroll  .  .  90 

Whango  Tree,  The 12 

What  the  Prince  of  I  Dreamt  H.  Cholmondeley-Pennell  215 
When  Moonlike  ore  the 

Hazure  Seas  .  .  .  .  W.  M.  Thackeray  .  49 

Where  Avalanches  Wail 45 

Wild  Flowers Peter  Newell  .  .  .  212 

Wonderful  Old  Man,  The 153 

Wreck  of  the  " Julie  Plante"  If.  H.  Drummond  .  116 

YAK,  THE Hilaire  Belloc  .      .      .  in 

Yonghy-Bonghy-B6,  The       .   Edward  Lear       .      .  76 


C»79] 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 


A  BECKET,  GILBERT  ABBOTT 

A  Holiday  Task         137 

ASHBY-STERRY,  J. 

Kindness  to  Animals 203 

BAYLES,  JAMES  C. 

In  the  Gloaming 23 

BEDE,  CUTHBERT 

In  Immemoriam 29 

BEERS,  HENRY  A. 

Ye  Laye  of  ye  Woodpeckore 139 

BELLOC,   HILAIRE 

The  Bison 209 

The  Frog :  207 

The  Python 208 

The  Yak '.     .  207 

BLANCHARD,  LAMAN 

Ode  to  the  Human  Heart 258 

BURDETTE,  ROBERT  J. 

Limerick 266 

BURGESS,  GELETT 

Abstemia 38 

Abstrosophy 37 

The  Invisible  Bridge 196 

The  Lazy  Roof 197 

Limericks .  266 

My  Feet 197 

Psycholophon 39 

The  Purple  Cow 196 

BURNAND,   F.   C. 

Oh,  my  Geraldine 66 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

BURNS,   ROBERT 

Ken  ye  Aught  o'  Captain  Grose? 73 

CALVERLEY,   CHARLES  S. 

The  Auld  Wife 192 

The  Cock  and  the  Bull 165 

Companions 163 

Lovers  and  a  Reflection 170 

CANNING,   GEORGE 

The  Elderly  Gentleman 134 

CANNON,  EDWARD 

An  Unsuspected  Fact 242 

CARROLL,  LEWIS 

The  Hunting  of  the  Snark 97 

Jabberwocky 3 

She's  All  my  Fancy  Painted  Him        ....  20 

Sylvie  and  Bruno  ..       • 101 

The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter 93 

Ways  and  Means 90 

CARRYL,  CHARLES  E. 

My  Recollectest  Thoughts 21 

The  Walloping  Window-Blind 123 

CARRYL,   GUY  WETMORE 

The  Singular  Sangfroid  of  Baby  Bunting  .      .      .  129 

CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL,  H. 

The  Bloated  Biggaboon 211 

What  the  Prince  of  I  Dreamt 215 

CLARK,  LEWIS  GAYLORD 

The  Flamingo 201 

CORBET,  BISHOP 

Like  to  the  Thundering  Tone 27 

DAVIS,  J. 

The  Sun 251 

DEANE,  ANTHONY  C. 

Here  is  the  Tale iS8 

DODGE,  MARY  MAPES 

The  Mayor  of  Scuttleton 195 

[284] 


Index  of  Authors 


DRUMMOND,   W.    H. 

Wreck  of  the  "Julie  Plante,"  The     .      .      .      .  116 
Du  MAURIER,  GEORGE 

Vers  Nonsensiques 265 

FANSHAWE,   CATHARINE  M. 

Imitation  of  Wordsworth 173 

FIELD,  EUGENE 

The  Boy 252 

The  Dinkey  Bird 218 

FOOTE,  S. 

Farrago  of  Nonsense xxxi 

GILBERT,  W.  S. 

Ferdinando  and  Elvira no 

General  John 112 

Gentle  Alice  Brown 102 

Sing  for  the  Garish  Eye 13 

The  Story  cf  Prince  Agib 107 

There  was  an  Old  Man  of  St.  Bees      ....  xxx 

GOLDSMITH,  GOLDWIN 

The  Monkey's  Glue 210 

GOLDSMITH,   OLIVER 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog       .      .      .      .  151 

Elegy  on  Madam  Blaize 149 

A  Great  Man 148 

Parson  Gray 150 

HARTE,  BRET 

The  Personified  Sentimental 44 

Swiss  Air 64 

HENLEY,  W.   E. 

Villon's  Straight  Tip 257 

HERFORD,  OLIVER 

The  Chimpanzee 199 

The  Cow 198 

The  Hen 197 

The  Hippopotamus 199 

Metaphysics 36 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

HERFORD,  OLIVER — Continued 

The  Platypus 199 

The  Silver  Question 117 

Some  Geese 200 

HOFFMAN,  HEINRICH 

The  Story  of  the  Wild  Huntsman  ......      222 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL 

Estivation 136 

HOOD,  THOMAS 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray 131 

HOOD,  THOMAS,  JR. 

Muddled  Metaphors 256 

INGELOW,  JEAN 

The  Noble  Tuckman 244 

JENKS,  TUDOR 

On  the  Road 247 

JOHNSON,  SAMUEL 

As  with  my  Hat xxx 

If  a  Man  who  Turnips  Cries      ...<..     xxxi 
The  Tender  Infant xxx 

JONSON,  BEN 

Buz,  quoth  the  Blue  Fly 66 

KING,  BEN 

The  Pessimist 245 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD 

Limerick xxxii 

KNIGHT,  HENRY  C. 

Lunar  Stanzas 15 

LAMB,  CHARLES 

Nonsense  Verses 243 

LANIGAN,  GEORGE  T. 

Dirge  of  the  Moolla  of  Kotal 235 

A  Threnody 2^3 

LEAR,  EDWARD 

The  Ahkond  of  Swat 230 

Incidents  in  the  Life  of  my  Uncle  Arly     ...        86 
[286] 


Index  of  Authors 


LEAR,  EDWARD  —  Continued 

The  Jumblies 83 

Limericks 260-263 

Lines  to  a  Young  Lady 88 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat 59 

The  Pobble 8 1 

There  was  an  Old  Man  in  a  Tree xxx 

The  Yonghy-Bonghy-B6 76 

LEIGH,  HENRY  S. 

Cossimbazar 43 

LONGFELLOW,  H.   W. 

There  was  a  Little  Girl 252 

LOOMIS,  CHARLES  BATTELL 

A  Classic  Ode 45 

Timon  of  Archimedes 39 

MACKINTOSH,  NEWTON 

Fin  de  Siecle 253 

Limerick 267 

MACY,  ARTHUR 

The  Rollicking  Mastodon 125 

MERIVALE,  HERMAN 

Darwinity 31 

MILTON,  JOHN 

On  the  Oxford  Carrier 157 

MONKHOUSE,  COSMO 

Limericks 263-264 

MOORE,  THOMAS 

Nonsense 47 

MORGAN,  JAMES  APPLETON 

Malum  Opus 135 

MORRIS,  J  W. 

Collusion  between  a  Alegaiter  and  a  Water-Snaik    143 

NEWELL,  PETER 

Her  Dairy 213 

Her  Polka  Dots 212 

Timid  Hortense 212 

Wild  Flowers 212 


A   Nonsense   Anthology 

PAIN,  BARRY 

Martin  Luther  at  Potsdam 160 

Oh,  Weary  Mother 64 

PALMER,  E.  H. 

The  Parterre 56 

The  Shipwreck 1 1 8 

PARKE,  WALTER 

Limericks 264 

PLANCHE 

The  Sea-Serpent 248 

To  Mollidusta 57 

POPE,  ALEXANDER 

Lines  by  a  Person  of  Quality 50 

PORTER,  BRUCE 

Limerick 267 

PRAED,  W.  M. 

Song  of  Impossibilities 183 

QUILLER-COUCH,    A.    T. 

The  Famous  Ballad  of  the  Jubilee  Cup     .      .      .      175 
Sage  Counsel 204 

RILEY,  JAMES  W. 

The  Lugubrious  Whing-Whang 63 

The  Man  in  the  Moon 220 

Spirk  Troll-Derisive 10 

ROCHE,  JAMES  JEFFREY 

A  Sailor's  Yarn 120 

SEAMAN,   OWEN 

The  Bulbul 65 

Of  Baiting  the  Lion 205 

STEVENSON,  R.   L. 

Not  I 194 

STOKES,  FRANCIS  G. 

Blue  Moonshine 46 

STREAMER,  COL.   D. 

Aunt  Eliza 254 

Impetuous  Samuel 254 

[288] 


Index  of  Authors 


STREAMER,  COL.   D.  —  Continued 

Misfortunes 254 

Tender-Heartedness 253 

SWINBURNE,  A.   C. 

The  Higher  Pantheism 30 

John  Jones 57 

Nephelidia 158 

TENNYSON,  LORD 

Minnie  and  Winnie 194 

THACKERAY,   W.    M. 

Little  Billee 114 

The  Sorrows  of  Werther 242 

When  Moonlike  ore  the  Hazure  Seas  ....        49 

THOMPSON,   D'ARCY  W. 

Poor  Dear  Grandpapa 247 

TWIG,  JOHN 

Ballade  of  the  Nurserie 60 

WARD,  ARTEMUS 

Uncle  Simon  and  Uncle  Jim 247 

WEST,  PAUL 

The  Cumberbunce 226 

WHITE,  HARRIET  R. 

Uffia  ....        10 


[289] 


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